


Make It to Me

by itsallaboutzarry



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Not sci-fi, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-20 01:43:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 48,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4768853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsallaboutzarry/pseuds/itsallaboutzarry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know that place between sleep and awake,<br/>that place where you still remember dreaming?<br/>That's where I'll always love you.<br/>That's where I'll be waiting.<br/>- Peter Pan</p><p>Or, the one where Harry time travels to the past, where he falls in love with Zayn. And from there, things get kind of complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1999

**Author's Note:**

  * For [contemporarydreamer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/contemporarydreamer/gifts).



> Out of all of your wonderful prompts, I just couldn't resist this one. And it might not be exactly what you wanted, but I hope you still like it.
> 
> I have to thank my beta for helping me and cheering me on. And that one person that helped me start this thing and kept me going. I couldn't have done it alone. You're both awesome.  
> I also want to thank everyone involved in the process of this exchange. You're awesome too.
> 
> The remaining mistakes are all mine. I don't own anything except the story. So without further ado, I hope y'all enjoy.

It feels like an earthquake, like the ground beneath his bed is shaking with such force that the old thing is going to collapse underneath him. It doesn't stop either, just keeps shaking, keeps buzzing and buzzing and it's not going to stop, Harry's aware of that much. It's a struggle to locate his flashing phone with his eyes closed, but he manages, hand flying over his night-stand and knocking something over – he'll take care of it in the morning.

Harry still doesn't open his eyes as he accepts the call, doesn't even take a breath to brace himself for whoever would be calling him in he middle of the night.

It's Gemma.

“Baby brother,” she screams through the phone, sufficiently deafening him for the time being. “I guess you're old now, huh? Remind me again, is it twenty-two, three? Fifty? I always forget.”

“Ha ha,” Harry croaks, opening his eyes with a smile. “And it's twenty-one, don't pretend like you didn't count down the minutes.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just tell me if I'm first.”

“It's –” Harry checks his phone and sure enough, “Midnight to the dot. What do you think.”

“Why are you so grumpy? You should be celebrating,” she sounds drunk. She sounds happy.

“Yeah well, I'm planning on celebrating tomorrow, now let me sleep.”

“You sure you're not fifty little brother?” she snorts, laughing at her own joke and Harry's positive she's drunk, but he won't bring it up. He doesn't want to make her feel bad.

“Make sure you drink water,” Harry says instead. “See you tomorrow.”

There's a pause and she must be smiling, the one she keeps specially for Harry, a little reserved and honest, protective of her little brother. “Happy birthday Harry.”

Harry can hear other people in the background before she hangs up, can hear someone shout obscenities about someone else's mother right before his phone goes black and he shuts his eyes again.

 

Harry's never been the kind of person to put himself above others. He'll stand outside of a shop for fifteen minutes if that's how long it takes for everyone to shuffle in and out. He'll help a mother carry her stroller up the stairs and insist on it not being a problem at all. Harry'll give the last of his change to anyone that asks, anyone that's put effort into making a cardboard sign, anyone who needs it. Harry would say he's actually quite selfless, if that wouldn't defeat the purpose.

The only thing Harry cares about is his family's and friends' well-being. That, and positive energy. He believes in karma, tries his best to be nice and good in order to get some nice and good in return, but sometimes, on a bad day when things aren't going the way he wants, it can get kind of hard to. With all the good Harry tries to put out there, the open doors and the endless favours he never asks anything in return for, smiles he knows make Niall's day better and hugs that calm Louis down, Harry doesn't get all that much good in return. That's hard to admit with being selfless and all, but he's never won so much as a participation trophy – and Harry's always wanted a trophy.

Of course, it's not really about the trophy, but it would be nice to get something back in return.

Harry can feel it coming. He's driving down the Pacific Coast Highway with the sea to his right and Harry can feel it's coming: the trophies he doesn't really need, but wants nonetheless. The drive isn't too long and there's little to no traffic early on Sundays, so the road is pretty clear, the beach and palm trees leading his way. His window's open, arm posed over the glass' edge and he probably shouldn't do that, because Harry'll feel the cold air now smoothly drifting over his skin deep in his bones later - when it'll hurt and he'll complain to his mother. It's nice though, to feel the fresh salty air as the sun lazily awakens, the sky still tinged with an indecisive shade of yellow. The drive has to be his favourite part of going home, easy and simple, just sitting and getting from point A to B. Always the same turns, the same stretches of sand opening up as the tires spin. The sun always rising on the drive up.

But it's that day of the year, when his Sunday drive home is that much more exciting and special than the rest. It's tradition really, their Sunday dinners. Gemma tries to make it every weekend like Harry, though her intent comes through once a month at best, with how busy she always is – or how busy she makes herself out to be. She'll be there today though, they all will. Anne, Gemma, Robin and Des, his granddad and cousins and family friends. They'll all be there for Harry to celebrate his birthday. Once a year, Harry gets to grin for the whole hour drive it takes for him to get home; shameless and unabashed. Once a year, Harry gets his prize for being a decently nice human being.

He won't lie. When he was seven and his mom told him that they were moving for the first time and he cried, Harry got his first taste of pure, unadulterated attention. He was coddled, hugged and entertained around the clock, Gemma, his gran and Anne taking turns. He was kept in the dark of what was going on, why Anne lost her smile all of a sudden, why Gemma was always sad and why Des kept carrying boxes to Anne's car. Harry didn't know what was happening beyond the trips to the park and his new bike.

As much as he didn't feel guilty then, for the presents and the laughs when he told a joke, Harry does maybe feel guilty now. It was different then, because when he was seven, all Harry wanted was an extra piece of candy, another episode of  _CSI_  before bed time and 10 more minutes in the morning. It wasn’t about getting ahead and being greedy, not like it is now when Harry gets to turn in his essays later than everyone else in his class, because he’s aware of the glances the professor throws his way. When Harry was seven it wasn’t about playing himself up in order to have an upper hand or to get into someone’s pants. Motives changed, but Harry didn't.

If you press hard enough and convince long enough, make enough promises and offer the right incentive, Harry will bend himself backwards to charm you, win you over and in the end, get what he wanted in the first place.

Today is the only day in the year when all Harry has to do is show up.

When he parks in front of the drive way, Harry gets out of his car with a skip in his step. It's his day, the one time Harry doesn't have to smile wider or hide how much he loves it – all of it. So of course there's a skip in his step.

As soon as the doors open, he's enveloped in hugs and drowned in kisses. He doesn't see all their faces, but he recognizes his granddad's firm and callused hands on his back and his aunts perfume, the flowery musk that should give Harry a headache, not a grin. It's the same as every year, same wishes from the same people with almost exact envelopes filled with various amounts of money. But that's not why it's Harry's favourite day. It's the cake and the way everyone keeps their eyes on him as the candles melt, the way they cheer when he blows them out – it's the fact that everyone there is celebrating him. It's not about the trophy.

Harry's not even hiding it, basking in the attention and gloating to his aunt's face about college, as if he's going to graduate anywhere near  _summa con laude_. But it's still nice, to be asked questions Harry doesn't want to answer and to be forced to eat more, because apparently, he's lost some weight.

“You should come visit more often”, “How long is the drive?”, “Are you dating anyone new?”, the questions all bleed into one, so many of them, everyone wanting to know everything they possibly can and Harry does it all, answers all of their questions through a smile as big as ever, because it's what he wants, what he's wanted since he was six.

Harry promises Kevin that he'll come visit soon and tells his granddad that the drive isn't too long, that he isn't dating anyone as of right now. Gemma laughs at that one and Anne kicks her, though she's trying to hold off her laugh too. Traitors, both of them

“Maybe come by your old man's place.” It's his dad this time, which well, Harry's happy he showed.

“I will dad,” Harry smiles and hugs Des, tries to squeeze his words into his father, because he really should visit him more often. “Classes were busy.” It's a lame excuse, if that, but Harry has nothing better to say. “I'll try to come by next weekend.”

“That's good to hear.”

And as much as Harry doesn't want to see them leave, he enjoys the hugs again, more promises of visits they won't have time for and handshakes Harry's going to feel for a week. Harry sighs once it's just him, Anne and Gemma left in the eerily quiet hallway. He can smell the wine and aunt Liv's perfume, can still hear the slam of car doors, the roaring of engines as he sighs and follows Gemma to the living room.

“Robin went to bed?” Gemma asks, walking to the couch and sitting down in the corner of it, wrapping a blanket around her feet.

“Yeah.” Anne is moving dirty plates and empty glasses around the table, but Harry knows she won't actually start cleaning until tomorrow. “Has an early morning.”

“Harry's had one of those today,” Gemma's look is less than inviting. “Didn't you, little brother?”

“Mom, tell her to stop calling me that,” Harry wines, like the toddler he is. “You're only a year older. And not that you'd know what an early mornings looks like.”

The pillow hits the side of Harry's face before he had the chance to brace himself.

“Oh give it a break,” Anne huffs as she sits down between them, acting as a barrier. “I'm too tired to listen to you fight.”

“We're not fighting.”

“Good,” Anne smiles at them both as she puts her hand on Harry's knee, the motion comforting and exciting all in one. “What will it be?”

And that's another thing that's the same every year. On their birthdays, Gemma and Harry can pick an activity, anything – within reason – for the family to do. Gemma wanted to skydive, but settled on horseback riding last year. The year before that it was surfing, before that a trip to Europe that counted for two years and before that, it was time alone and away from her family – her rebellious years Harry's still trying to forget.

It's the same one for Harry every year though. Listening to his mother talk about her teenage years, the road trips and the drugs, adventures in the seventies, the concerts in early eighties. It’s all Harry asks for every year because in Harry's eyes, his mother was a rock-star.

“Tell me about dad,” Harry says as he leans his head on Anne's shoulder, already feeling the rush of mingling with people draining from him, shifting into the air and settling on his skin like a gentle hum. “How did you meet?” He's heard it before, how it was love at first sight, but Harry still likes to hear it, how it can happen, how you can fall in love by just seeing someone, just one look and you know.

Harry savours every single word Anne tells him about love, true love, the kind that you're lucky to find and keep, know of and forever feel somewhere at the edge of your heart. When Harry was growing up, he knew of love, had felt it for himself. The gently fierce mother's love, the nagging protective sister's, proud father's and the grateful love Harry was forced to feel at first, when Robin introduced himself, but Harry learned to appreciate it, even if it's still painful to think about. Harry has plenty of love in his life and he's had some really big likes as well, but for however much those loves warm him from inside out and prevent the lurid loneliness that drifts by on rainy days, Harry doesn't know what the purest of loves feels like. He doesn't know what it's like to look at someone and only see them, to not hear the dog barking in the background, the sirens down the street – he doesn't know if he'll ever be able to look at just the one person, to ever feel for someone as much and as hard as Anne tells him she did, does.

On those rainy days, when Harry really does believe he has a clear connection with the sun, Harry wonders if he's missed it. He doesn't know if what he had with Nina was it all along, but he was too busy at the time, worrying about some other important things. How is Harry supposed to know when the sparks fly? And what is Harry supposed to do when he feels fireworks because of a kiss? Jump up and down, declare evergreen dedication to his soulmate?

Anne sighs and settles in. Harry knows she doesn't like talking about Des, doesn't like to be reminded of the fights Harry was strictly kept out of, but once a year, she clears her throat, brings out the dark green photo album and indulges him. She talks about Des as if he was all she knew, all she cared about when they were together, and it's what Harry needs to hear. He can't believe that there are no soulmates, that he won't be able to find the true love of his life because no such thing exists. Life would be too boring if Harry didn't have a chance to fall head over heals. Life almost isn't worth it if Harry believes he can't meet someone and just know, like his mother says.

Gemma listens with her eyes closed as Anne opens the cover and starts with a happy, “In a land far, far away.” It has to be one of Harry's favourite things, to sit next to his mom and listen to her talk about the past with emotions he so rarely sees on her, flashing in her eyes, covering her features and transporting her to that time, all the way to when she and dad were happy. It's mostly nostalgia Harry guesses, but there's hints of joy and sadness mixed in, like she can't keep it to herself, control it completely.

“We decided to have a bonfire on the beach. I remember, it was such a perfect night,” Anne tells the story, looking up and seeing it right in front of her eyes, like she's back there, her lips turning. But her eyes stay somber and clear, grounded in the present. “We had beer, whiskey, weed, you name it. Everyone was there too. It was the first of our little reunions, the one we have every couple of years and all of them are great, but the first is one of the best nights of my life.”

The way she makes it sound, like she's grateful with a hint of regret, makes Harry pull his knees to his chest and look up at Anne, waiting and seeing where the story goes.

“The whole gang was there,” she looks down at a battered photo, curled at the edges and faded with age. It's not in any of the little flaps, isn't tucked down safely to keep forever. It's like she's trying to let something go while keeping it close to her heart. It's enough for Harry to take it and look at it, curiously inspecting if he'll recognize any faces.

“That's you and dad right?” Harry points at the couple in the centre, arms wrapped around each other, afraid to let go.

“It is, yeah,” Anne says, but it doesn't sound like regret this time. It doesn't sound like she's trying to keep it close anymore.

“You were so pretty,” Harry has to say, because he can't think about it yet, his mom and Des, two separate families. But she really was pretty, with bangs and big earrings, a brown jacket Harry wouldn't mind having in his closet.

“You trying to say I'm ageing badly?”

“You know what I mean,” he bumps her shoulder with his, but doesn't look up from the photo. “You were so different then.”

“I know. Time changes people, huh?”

“Yeah,” Harry sighs and thinks of himself, the six year old boy who wouldn't go to the beach without his mom, and he guesses not that many things have changed. “So? What happened? Did you get drunk?”

“Aunt Liv did.”

Harry's eyes widen. “She was there?”

Anne points to a petite girl with swirly hair, dressed in a mini skirt he'd rather not picture aunt Liv wearing. “She got so drunk and slept through the whole thing. Woke up just in time for the night swim though.”

“You went skinny dipping didn't you? Don't lie.”

“We did no such thing,” Anne laughs though her words and Harry lets it pass.

“Yeah, right.”

Anne sits back, smiles like mother's shouldn't. “We were wild.”

Harry chuckles. “I bet you were.”

“Well you weren't there, were you?”

“Wish I was,” Harry says under his breath, too late to blow out the candles again.

Anne tells him story after story of every person in the photo. Of how her and Des danced even though there was no music. How Michael, who comes by to visit from time to time and always brings expensive wine he didn't drink back then, how he was all about the weed. And Harry finally feels settled, curled on the couch next to his mom as she tells him what Alex and Natasha did, how awfully Margret was dressed and what a loser Kevin was back then. Harry sits and listens, like he would be listening for a breeze in the summer, desperate and wanting, like this is his trophy, waiting to know everything.

When Anne gets to the end of the photo, there's only one figure left. Harry can't tell who it is, if it's someone he knows or has seen, if it's one of those Alex's or Natasha's that Anne lost touch with after college.

“Who's he?” Harry asks. Feels like he has to.

“Oh, yeah,” Anne looks at the photo again, closer, smiling happily and probably remembering everything about the boy. “You don't remember him?”

Harry shakes his head. He doesn't know who he should be remembering, but he knows there are a couple of photos of him in the album.

“They called him Zayn Malik, the mysterious one. He wasn't that big of a mystery if you ask me.”

“What happened to him?”

“He always had to be the odd one out.” And it's the was she says it that grabs Harry's attention, like she about to list of fact by fact of information about the man, like he's so full and rounded that he has a list. “Wearing a leather jacket before it was cool and those hideous boots.”

“Heey,” Harry whines. “Boots aren't hideous.”

“Oh, you should've seen them, washed out and torn. Never knew how he kept them on his feet. He was a good one though. Joined our group when his parents moved into their house. and we kind of ended up adopting him, was the baby of our group. The four of us,” Anne points to her and Des, Liv and Kevin included, “were older than them, but he kept close to Alex and Natasha. Then he drifted off I guess.”

“What do you mean?”

She shrugs. “He changed. One day he was Zayn Malik, the apple of everyone's eye, the one to get around with the cheer-leading team, though you didn't her it from me,” Ann gives him a serious look, but her eyes are crinkling at the corners, a smile threatening to let loose. “And then the next he was practically a recluse. Said he met someone and that was it. Straightened up and got all serious. We were close in college, but after a while, we stopped seeing him.”

Anne gets a look and it's similar to the one full of sadness, but this one has something more to it, a bitter edge, a remorseful quality Harry doesn't like.

“He was hot,” he shots out and it lightens the mood, which was Harry's intent, but it also makes Anne close the album and stand up, which he didn't want at all.

“He was. Bet he still is,” she winks, puts the album back on the shelf. “Now off to bed.”

“I'm gonna sleep here tonight, keep Gem company.”

“Do as you want,” she pulls the blanket over Gemma, tucks it beneath her chin. “Just don't complain about your back in the morning.”

“Goodnight mom.”

“Goodnight honey.” Anne leans down and kisses the top of his head. “Happy birthday.”

Harry wants to lie down and sleep, get his energy up for tomorrow morning when everyone that couldn't make it today will show up with additional apologies along their gifts. They'll try to make it up to Harry, they'll laugh louder at his jokes and hug him for three seconds longer. They'll ask him more questions and nod more attentively when he'll get into one of his stories about college, long and completely unnecessary, half of it made up just to see if anyone will ask him to stop. Harry can't wait to wake up and start all over again, feel the rush and the attention.

But as much as he wants to lie down and close his eyes, Harry can't without taking his eyes off of that dark figure standing in the corner of the photo. In the midst of wanting to go to bed herself, Anne forgot to put away the group photo of them all, lined up and smiling bright.

Zayn Malik isn't smiling though. He's wearing the jacket Anne mentioned, the fire reflecting off the polished leather and Harry can picture his boots, torn and muddy and suddenly Harry’s got a pretty good idea as to how Zayn got around with the whole cheer-leading team. There's just something about his face and the way he looks at he camera, like he knew whoever was taking the photo, like he was trying to tell that person something with his eyes - something secret, important and from Harry's experience, probably hot and dirty.

Zayn is standing in the right most corner, in the shadows of everyone else next and in front of him, yet he was the first thing Harry had noticed. He's got black raven hair, Harry can tell even if he can't see that well past the faded edges. It's almost down to his shoulders, parted in the middle and framing his face, and Harry knows it's intentional, that the wind didn't just sweep it that way. Zayn has his hands in the pockets of his jeans, hunched over but still straight enough to look menacing, like he's up to no good, a tilt in his eye Harry can't stop staring at.

Zayn's the only one standing alone, the only uncoupled one and Harry wonders why that is, as he lies down fully, covers his legs with a blanket. Zayn doesn't look like the kind of person to be left standing alone. Harry tells himself to ask Anne in the morning, find out why he was alone, who Zayn was waiting for and where all the cheerleaders were.

 Harry wonders if, maybe, Zayn had been with whomever was standing behind the camera.

*

Waking up after a good, uninterrupted night's sleep has to be Harry's favourite feeling in the world – or at least a close second. The drowsiness of how your brain comes to, turning your senses back on one by one, like ticking items off of a carefully put together list. It's like Spring every morning, daises and bright red poppies coming to bloom, the snow dripping away as Harry blinks his eyes open. The gentle chirping of birds and the sun's shine a warmer tint of yellow than it's been in months, stretching his arms and hearing his joints crack.

And almost every Sunday, Harry gets to sleep in his bed, his proper bed, the one he's had since he was 12. It's barely big enough for two people – Harry still doesn't know how he, Louis and Niall all managed to fit – with a funny spring that he can feel in his lower back and a loud crack if Harry rolls to the far left of it, but it smells like home. It smells like his childhood and his naivete, feels like it always does, all his dreams and fears stuffed and hidden underneath his pillow. It's the comfort of knowing that Gemma is down the hall, that Anne and Robin are soundly snoring downstairs and that he's on every single person's Christmas list up and down their street. It's the satisfaction of being able to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night without turning on the light.

Harry's always loved their house, the same house Anne grew up in, marked with hers, aunt Liv's, Harry's and Gemma's heights up the kitchen's doorway. There's a crocked step on the wooden staircase that Harry's pretty sure has always been there, along with the abused rug on the top of it. Harry's room was Anne's when she was growing up and the living room is where they all took their first steps. There's a certain sentiment the house has, like a literal and metaphorical home Harry needs in his life, something to come back to, a surety nothing else has been able to reach.

The beach at the back is where Anne and her gang used to hang out, down to the last house on the left, almost underneath the pier. Where they used to drink cheap beer and smoke good weed, not like the shitty stuff Harry smoked at a party two weeks ago, burning his throat on the inhale and blurring his head in the process. The beach is like a memory itself, a treasured piece of land far greater in worth than the photos in Anne's album, because it can't fade, can't curl at the edges. It can't get lost, no matter how much you try.

The beach is where Harry wakes up.

It takes him a moment too long to realise there's no soft pillows underneath his head or a blanket Harry's sure he pulled around his chest before he fell asleep. The sand Harry can feel digging into his skin is damp and cool, rough on his bare arms. He can taste the sea as well, the salty dryness heavy on his tongue like he'd have smoked a blunt before going to sleep last night. Harry woke up lying on his stomach, which is definitely not he usually prefers to sleep – curled on his side, preferably clutching a pillow to his chest – but at least the sand didn't get into his hair and down to the roots. That goes out the window though, when Harry rolls over on his back, grunting.

Not completely sure how he got there, how he ended up half on the beach and half in the shallow waves, Harry doesn't try to open his eyes and find out. He can tell without looking that his jeans and boots are soaked, but the whisper of the sea is enough to keep him calm and sedated enough not to care. It's actually quite pleasant, the cold water seeping through to his skin and the feeling of sand under his palms, the moon high in the sky. But then the ocean is drowned out by the clinking of bottles, the rattle of people's voices and the pleasant cracklings of burning wood. Harry opens his eyes reluctantly and tries to look back, tries to see what's going on behind him when he sits up with a jolt.

He's on the beach. It's the middle of the night in February and Harry is lying on the sand with strangers drinking so close to him, it looks like he's a part of their group. But he's not, Harry's pretty sure – he doesn't think he knows who they are, can't really make out their faces with the glow of the fire blinding him. Harry doesn't panic though, because it's going to be okay, he just needs to get up, walk down the beach and go home. No one ever needs to find out he walked in his sleep. It's not that bad.

He keeps those words on the edge of his tongue when someone cheers as he stands, and it's not meant for him – not that Harry would mind someone cheering – but he knows it's not meant for him. It still makes him feel a little better, knowing that the kids drinking must be his age, that they won't look at him sideways because he woke up on a beach.

Harry can tell they're well on their way of being drunk, can smell the mixture of smoke and booze when he sees it – the skirt, the red and blue tartan of the mini skirt barely covering his aunts ass, right there on a girl sleeping near the fire. He was right, he never wants to picture his aunt wearing that, not then and definitely not now.

“Hey!” a tall guy with a patch of puffy hair below his lips yells, walking towards him. Harry feels like he should take a step back, maybe raise his hands and mutter a quick sorry before he runs away, because he really didn't mean to intrude on their private party. It's just that he needs to pass them to get off the beach and onto the street.

“Hey,” the tall guy says again as he's a few feet away now, and stops, looking at Harry like he's unsure of himself. “You okay? Saw you walking out of the water.”

And Harry didn't expect that. He can't see the guy's face because the fire is right behind him, but the thought of coming to check if Harry's okay eases Harry's mind. The guy must be at least half all-right if he cares.

“Yeah, I'm fine,” Harry says, and adds a, “I think so,” under his breath. “Just, strolling down the beach.”

“Well,” the guy says, and there's something about it, about him and his brown eyes that Harry thinks he should know. “Sounds like you need a beer.” Harry thinks he recognized the sound of his smile.

He should say no. His feet are wet and he doesn't actually feel all that good now that he thinks about it. But Harry could always drink a beer before going back to the house. He wouldn't mind getting a little something into his system. So instead of giving a half-assed excuse, Harry says “If there's room for one more?” with what he knows is his most charming smile.

“Everyone,” Kevin, as he introduced himself, says. “This is Harry. Harry,” he motions to the group of people sitting around a bonfire. “This is everyone.”

Harry doesn't automatically notice everything he should, like how the girl sitting right in front of him has bangs and curls he's seen before, or the guy next to her and his eyes, the shape and colour so familiar, Harry thinks it's impossible. And he doesn't notice the striking blonde hair he's seen in so many photos he thought he'll never forget it, because there on the left, sitting on a rock with his feet crossed and his face in sharp edges Harry wants to cut his tongue with, is Zayn freaking Malik.

It's a passing thought as he goes around the fire, saying hi to everyone and introduces himself as Harry, shaking at some and waving at others. He didn't listen though – not that he had to, he knows who everyone is – because his mind was busy trying to figure out what exactly was going on. How can Harry possibly be on a beach more almost 15 years in the past.

“So where did you come from?” the blonde, Alex, asks him. Harry's never spoken to him, only heard the tails of his truck and how they all used to go on road-trips up the coast, up to Los Angeles.

Harry thinks how Anne told him of her childhood and that everyone knew each other back then, the town not being more than a stretch of houses on the beach. So he thinks fast, says, “Decided to travel a bit?” But Harry doesn't sound sure in himself, so he clears his throat and takes a sip of his beer. “I'm from LA originally. Thought about going up north, but here I am I guess.”

“So you just left home?” Anne asks, mesmerized.

“Um,” Harry stumbles, because her head is on Des's shoulder and they're together, still, before, again. “I did yeah. It, uh, wasn't easy, but I just had to leave, you know? Needed a change of scenery.”

“That's like, so brave,” Natasha says, but Harry's not listening again, because Des leans up and kisses Anne.

Harry feels it in his bones, their love and affection, even if the kiss is no more than a peck, a quick thing to remind themselves of what they have. They look so good together, Des with his broad shoulders and Anne with the smile she passed on to her children. Harry almost coos over them, almost asks them to kiss again, but then he remembers it's all a dream.

They ask him where he's already been and Harry tells them of the places he can think of on the spot, San Diego, San Clemente, Rancho Palos Verde. They're just place names, and Harry doesn't go deeper, doesn't tell them what he's seen or heard in his travels, because Harry can't stop looking over at Anne. She's smiling into Des's neck and Harry can see how his mouth is moving, probably teasing her, telling Anne how much he loves her, how he'd do everything for her. And Harry thinks of how he almost did.

“Skinny dipping,” Des announces and it's clear to Harry that they didn't decide this on the spot. No one says anything against it, they just stand up and start taking off layers of their clothes.

“Watch our clothes, yeah?” Margret says to Zayn, points at her carefully folded pile with her toe. “And don't fall asleep.”

Zayn chuckles, winks at her and leans back on his elbows. He looks comfortable, a thin white t-shirt underneath his jacket and simple washed out jeans are all he has on him, but as Harry's eyes travel over Zayn's hair, each strand of it and then further down his chest and torso, crossed legs and sharp knees, he sees the boots. They were black once, Harry thinks, probably the same shade as his hair, maybe even polished at one point. Now, though, they're scraped, battered and bruised like the best of them, visibly Zayn's only pair of shoes – much like Harry's boots. With Zayn's skinny legs and thin frame, the boots should be almost too heavy for him to walk in, bulky and thick, but Zayn loves those boots, Harry can tell.

Harry looks around and thinks how Louis would be splashing in the water already, how he doesn't have that many clothes to take off himself, how he wants to join them. But then he sees Zayn, sees how he isn't moving to stand up and take off his jacket and Harry's in a conflict with himself, because the way the jacket wraps around Zayn's shoulders and narrows at his waist makes Harry's mouth water, but the image of Zayn taking off his jacket and shirt, his shoulders bare and his slim waist on display, Harry's about ready to throw Zayn in the water.

“You're not going?” Zayn asks, but he doesn't look at Harry, keeps his eyes on his running and shouting friends. His voice drawls through the words and his tongue runs over his lips at the end. It's quite a sight.

“No.” It sounds clipped and short, not as seductive as Harry wanted it to be, so he looks at his knees and clears his throat, tries again. “Don't want to be the ninth wheel, you know?”

Zayn chuckles again and Harry has to look up, has to see if Zayn's eyes crinkle the way he's sure they do, if Zayn looks innocent when he laughs, if his tongue is pushed against his teeth like Harry would pay money to see.

“I do, yeah,” Zayn says, sitting up and patting the empty spot on the rock next to him. “But they don't make it that awful.”

“Why aren't you going in then?”

“Can't swim,” Zayn says it like he would anything else. He's not embarrassed about it and Harry likes that for some reason, the surety of it, the confidence in something he lacks. “Plus, someone has to keep an eye on the clothes.”

Harry agrees with a hum and sits down next to Zayn, the rock barely big enough for them both. “So where's your other half?”

Zayn looks at him from the corners of his eyes. “You mean my girlfriend?”

“I mean your other half,” Harry repeats himself, even if the answer will probably be too tragic to hear. “Whoever that might be.”

After Harry looks at the straight line of Zayn's nose for more time than is comfortable, Zayn says a quiet, “Don't have a girlfriend,” which Harry will gladly take.

“How come?” he asks and regrets it already, because he completely forgot about the cheerleaders.

“I'm waiting to meet someone special.”

“Special, huh?” Harry wiggles his eyebrows in a completely self-indulgent manner, because it's easy, this back and forth, settle flirtatious glances and words Zayn doesn't seem to have a problem with. Which is good, it's more than what Harry expected.

“Yeah,” Zayn says and scoots closer, their arms pressing together. “So tell me Harry, why are you really here.”

“The experience,” Harry bolts out without thought. He doesn't know what to say, that it's all the figment of his imagination and he's just trying to see where it goes? Harry thinks it wouldn't go over smoothly, even if it is his dream. “Wanted to have a taste of the local specialities around the coast.”

“And what local specialities have you tasted?” The way Zayn asks him, the way he looks at Harry with that tilt in his eyes is like a taunt, a provocation of who has the guts. And Harry's never been one to turn down a challenge.

“Not many,” he says as he leans back a bit, making Zayn turn his head if he wants to look at Harry, and Zayn does, smirking because he's on to it. “But I haven't found anything special yet.”

It's like a pillow to his face, a car coming out of nowhere, blind-siding Harry with the intensity of a lightning strike. Zayn surges forward and kisses him, hard and quick, all stiff muscles and no tongue, which not that Harry minds, but he really wouldn't be against a taste. So he cups the side of Zayn's face, runs his thumb over his cheek and as he feels Zayn sigh, he opens his mouth and kisses Zayn, really kisses him.

Harry doesn't think about how Zayn moves his head to the left, like he'd know Harry prefers the right, and he doesn't know why Zayn bites on his lower lip, like he'd know it'll make Harry hum and melt right into the kiss, gasp for more and cling to Zayn as if he's more than a shadowed figure in a photo.

The kiss tastes like coming home, a familiar sight for his sore eyes and feels like Zayn is trying his hardest to hold back. He fists his hand in Harry's shirt and holds on like he already knows he'll have to let go, grabs at Harry's side and tightens his fingers, gripping but not bruising. And Harry loves it, the way he can feel Zayn's want pour out of him and into Harry, a tangible thing he's always craved. Harry still wants more, doesn't want Zayn to hold back or pull away, so he pushes against it, jumps off the cliff and doesn't look down.

There's not much Harry won't do for a gratifying smile, a proud stance or a praise that he'll feel beating in his heart. It's easy when it comes to Louis, to convince him to love Harry, because there's not much he won't do for Harry in the first place, and it's not difficult with Niall either, because Niall doesn't much mind pleasing people. They listen to Harry's stories and even with their deprecating snorts, Harry'll keep going, will keep talking until he mentions the last unimportant detail, just because they'll listen. Just because it makes Harry feel like they care, and they do, they always do.

Harry can smile at the barista and get his coffee for free with a biscuit on the side. He could tell Nina how amazing her essay was and she'd write the next three for him, because Harry knows how it feels, to get the attention, to get all the boys to fight over you at a party, their fists deciding who'll take him home. But Harry's always the winner.

So when Harry hears the laughs get closer and closer, he doesn't want to let go of Zayn's jacket, doesn't want to put more space between their mouths – Harry wants to get his skin on Zayn's, want to kiss the soft skin behind Zayn's ear and lick his way down to his neck.

But Zayn pulls back, wipes the back of his hand over his mouth, like it'll do anything to ease the lively red of them, the slightly swollen curve, and smiles. And all Harry can think of is how he wants a photo of this moment as well, right as the corners of Zayn's eyes wrinkle and his lips curve and stretch. Even if Harry doesn't know if the smile's meant for him or for the people running naked towards them, shivering and laughing themselves, he'll take it. Harry takes it and doesn't plan on giving it back.

As it happens, he doesn't have to, because as everyone quickly runs to get their clothes on, Zayn moves his arm behind Harry, hooks his thumb in his jeans and keeps his hand there – moves his thumb up and down, leans into Harry's side when he can't keep his laugh contained or when he has one more beer, when all Harry wants to do is drag him away and have his way with Zayn.

Harry doesn't know what'll happen next, if he'll be dragged off to the depths of the ocean or thrown through the air like a rag-doll. All he knows is that as soon as he saw Zayn, standing in the corner and somehow pulling all of his attention to him with a simple easy smirk, Harry wanted to kiss him to see what it'd be like. Harry wanted to know if he'd finally feel the spark, hear the fireworks and forget about the barking.

“Wanna go for a walk?” Zayn asks into Harry's neck and as much as Harry hears his words, he feels them too, spreading out over his warm skin and burning through to get to his heart.

“Yeah.”

Anne and Des are too busy kissing, Margaret and Michael are in the middle of a heated debate and Liv is asleep again, with her head in Kevin's lap this time, so they don't notice how Zayn and Harry sneak off towards the shore line, hand in hand with cautious smiles on their lips.

“How come you can't swim?” Harry asks once their hands separate. He's walking on the line where the water washes over the sand, his boots in the ocean, but Zayn keeps his space on Harry's right as they walk towards the pier.

“I can swim,” Zayn begins and it sounds like it's hard for him. When Harry turns his head towards him, Zayn's looking at the stars, the clear twinkling in the unpolluted sky, but he's not smiling anymore. Zayn's eyebrows are pulled together, forming a frown Harry wants to lick away. “I just choose not to.”

“Why though?”

Zayn stops and sighs, looks down at his feet before he sets his eyes on Harry again, the frown dissipating. He blinks slowly, like he's been smoking all night when Harry knows for a fact he's only drank a few beers. His face is soft and open, his lips parted as he breaths. Harry shivers. “Because I almost drowned once.”

And Harry knows Zayn's had to explain it before and that even with time and the multiple reruns of the same words explaining the same things, the same facts, it hasn't gotten easier. He takes a step closer to Zayn and holds his hand, a simple gesture of being there for him that doesn't extend half of what Harry's heart is screaming in the moment. So Harry brings them closer, pulls Zayn by his hands and hugs him, wraps his arms around Zayn's middle as Zayn hooks his chin over Harry's shoulder and maybe it's enough, maybe Zayn will know that Harry cares.

Time doesn't make things easier, time doesn't factor in when you're broken and you're trying your best not to be. Time is just a measurement of moments gathered in a line to help you better understand your life, and how little of it you have. Minutes exist so that we know to stop sometimes, to take a breath and take it in. Seconds are there to speed us along, to make sure we keep going and going and going, until we reach the end of the road, no breaths left to take. And Harry can't be sure, not completely, but as he feels Zayn breathe right next to his ear, can imagine the beat of his heartbeat right next to his own, he thinks time slows down, just a little. Enough for him to not hear anything else but Zayn.

Zayn's solid back under his hands is the reason Harry likes hugs as much as he does. Having someone's body against his own, getting to feel their warmth and energy as it tangles two people together; feeling how they breathe, the intake as slow as the very last breath should be. Zayn's hands on his lower back are gentle, and Harry wonders how it would feel to have them on his bare skin, to have Zayn's hands cover his body from cheek to chest, torso to the back of his thighs.

“I'm sorry,” Harry whispers because he feels like he has to, because it feels like the right thing to say.

“What are you sorry for?”

Harry squeezes Zayn once before letting him go and looking into his eyes, the tilt barely there replaced by a whiff of sadness and memory, a distant thing Zayn shouldn't have.

“I just am.”

And as Harry smiles his most sincere smile, small and kind, Zayn kisses him. It's slow, so languid it shouldn't make Harry's heart flutter like it does, but it's quick too, easy. Zayn's lips are soft against Harry's and Harry doesn't want to do it, to step away from Zayn and break them apart, but then Zayn does and it's not that bad, because seeing Zayn smile like that as well, small and kind, like it's meant just for Harry to see, to know, isn't awful either.

“So what's your next destination?” Zayn asks as he takes Harry's hand again, starts walking.

“Not sure yet,” Harry says, and even if he thinks going home would be great, he wouldn't mind spending some time away.

“You could stay here for a while, like, if you wanted.”

“Are you blushing?” Harry squawks, laughing. “You are, you totally are.”

“Shut it, long legs,” Zayn bumps their shoulders together and tightens his hold on Harry's hand. Harry doesn't know if it's a promise or a plea, but he's ready to take both.

“You like my long legs,” he says and he doesn't know if it's true, but everyone likes his legs, so it might be. Harry wouldn't mind if it was true.

Zayn blushes again, but Harry doesn't make fun of it this time. This time it isn't cute. “I like your everything,” Zayn murmurs quietly.

“I like you too,” Harry bumps their shoulders again, and realizes how easy it is, to have Zayn's hand in his own and mean it. Kissing Zayn as they walk on the beach, talking and asking pointless questions that mean everything, all of this was not what Harry imagined would happen when he walked behind Kevin to greet the group of people laughing together around a bonfire.

They walk in amiable silence, moving their fingers with each step, smiling like idiots and stopping to kiss every few feet, and Harry's never been happier, never felt closer to another person than he does this raven haired boy he's just met. It feels like they've known each other longer though, like they've met before and traded all their deepest darkest secrets. It feels like Harry doesn't want to wake up.

“This is my house,” Zayn says as they come to stand in front of a plain white two story shore house. It's the same as all of the other ones, to the left and right. It's similar to Harry's house actually, except it looks newer. “Wanna go up?”

Harry eyes the house before he eyes Zayn. “You alone?” he asks, with a hopeful smirk.

And when Zayn nods, Harry smiles wide and starts running towards the stairs, climbing two at a time with Zayn right behind him, still holding his hand. The back door's thankfully open as they crash through it, a mess of limbs and lips, breathing heavy even if they've only just started.

“My room,” Zayn says, but Harry's mouth cuts him off. “Upstairs.”

It's a challenge, to walk up another set of stairs with someone glued to you, with someone trying to take off your shirt and unbutton your jeans at the same time, but they manage, making it into a small room with barely any clothes on.

“Nice posters,” Harry notices as he's pulling his jeans off over his ankles. He's out of breath, but he doesn't really need to breathe, not with Zayn lying on the small bed with only his boxers on, his legs spread and his hands waiting for Harry.

“No talking,” Zayn instructs when Harry makes his way on top of him, goes straight for the line of his neck and the smoothness of Zayn's chest.

“At all?” Harry asks, kisses Zayn's nipple and licks over it, bites until it hardens. “Because I can get quite loud.”

“Just,” Zayn pulls his hair, brings Harry up and kisses him quiet, hooks his calves on Harry's hips. “No talking.”

Then it's a mess of everything, their boxers flying through the air as they laugh into each other's necks, desperate whimpers caught in their throats as Harry slowly works his wet finger into Zayn, and loud moans when Zayn licks a broad stripe up from Harry's base to tip, tasting and not getting enough. It's Zayn assuring that he's ready, that he wants it and Harry trying to not cry out of pure bliss when he bottoms out, Zayn so tight Harry thinks he's ready to stay like that forever.

“Move, please,” Zayn begs and Harry does, shallow at first because he wants it to be perfect, couldn't bring himself to hurt Zayn, but it doesn't take long for him to speed up, for his hips to stop rolling and start thrusting, deeper each time. It's a mess of incoherent slurs then, a “Fuck me,” from Zayn and a choked off “Close,” from Harry as best as they can talk.

Harry's back is beaded with sweat as he feels Zayn cling to him, how he raises his hips to meet Harry's, his eyes shut and hands balled into fists at his sides. Harry slows and takes a breath, tries to calm down to say what he wants to, to make words come out of his mouth like he needs them to. “You're perfect,” is what he manages to say and it maybe isn't what he wanted to, but it still gets his point across as he leans down to kiss Zayn once, twice, like it's what they always do.

“And you're so special,” Zayn praises in return. It makes Harry's blood boil in the best possible way as he sees that Zayn means it, every word, every syllable coming out of his mouth portraying how he feels, how he wants Harry to know he feels. Zayn runs his fingers over Harry's temple, tucking a stray curl behind his ear. “You're something else Harry Styles.”

Harry's hips start moving on their own accord, picking up the pace with every kiss, every bite and lick he places on Zayn's neck - bruises to remind Zayn he was there, bruises to remind Harry that he is there.

“Touch me, touch me,” Zayn barely says, but Harry's hand is on him before he can even get the words out, his grip tight and wet, bringing Zayn closer to the edge, closer to where Harry's been ever since he saw that photo. “I'm close.”

“Come on,” Harry urges, lost in the movements their bodies create and the sound of skin on skin, the taste of Zayn on his tongue. “Come on,” Harry's able to say one more time before he comes, spilling into the condom as Zayn tightens around him, his legs bracketing Harry in place.

“Fuck,” Harry half whispers when Zayn's calmed down and he falls next to the boy, breathing still as erratic as ten seconds ago.

“That was...,” Zayn breathes out, but doesn't say more, though not that he has to, because Harry agrees completely.

“It really was.”

They're quiet, too quiet for a second and Harry can feel Zayn settle on his mattress, ready to curl up and fall asleep. So Harry turns on his side and kisses Zayn's chest, places his chin on his peck and asks, “So how many times've you done this?” because he can't think of anything better.

“Depends on what this is,” Zayn drawls, but doesn't open his eyes. He doesn't seem to be bothered by the question though.

“I guess falling into a bed with a stranger?” Harry frowns, because that doesn't sound like them, strangers, even if they met a few hours ago.

And as if Zayn reads him mind, he wraps his arm around Harry and says, “We're not strangers, are we? And I've never done this actually.”

Harry gasps a little, tries to contain his shock. “You've never had a one night stand?”

“Um,” Zayn finally opens his eyes and looks at Harry, tries to gauge his expression, Harry's sure, the way his eyes focus and narrow. “I mean in general?”

That, that can't mean what Harry thinks it means, but he still raises himself on his elbows and looks down at Zayn, now his eyes narrow and focused, because no, just, no. “No.”

“Um, yes.”

“This was your...” Harry can't bring himself to finish the question, leaves it hanging awkwardly in the air of what they've just done, what Harry just did with Zayn.

“So what if it was?” Zayn starts to push away from Harry, but Harry grabs his hand and pulls him back, climbs on top of him and holds him there.

“I didn't mean to upset you, okay? It's just,” Harry says and though he think he knows what he's trying to do, he doesn't know how to do it, not with the fresh image of Zayn moaning underneath him. “I would've made it different if I knew.”

Zayn huffs and turns his head away, tries to hide his face but Harry isn't having it. He releases one of Zayn's hands and hooks his finger underneath his chin, turns his head back.

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“When Harry? And why would I?” Zayn closes his eyes like he's done, like there's no further discussion needed here. “Yeah, that would've been so romantic.”

“Zayn,” Harry breathes, shakes his head and if he sounds sad, it's because he is. “I'm not mad and you shouldn't be either. It just would've been nice to know.” Harry leans forward, puts his forehead on Zayn's and tries not to kiss him. “I would've taken more time. Would've made it so much better.”

“You would?” Zays asks timidly, but Harry can hear it in his voice, the subtle whimper.

“Would've gone slower, used more fingers,” Harry says and brushes their lips together, as gentle as he knows how. “Would've made you come more than once.”

Zayn raises his hips at that, rubs himself against Harry as Harry finally kisses him, deep and dirty. “Fuck.”

It quickly turns into a contest of who can be louder, who can make the other scream more, who can come first and when Harry loses, he feels cheated because how was he supposed to hold off with Zayn's mouth on him, licking and sucking until Harry came down his throat. But Harry never stood a chance.

And Harry would do a lot to win, cheating being just one of the things since playing fair has never been high on his list, but Harry's willing to go far and beyond for a trophy or a medal, a job well done written on a piece of paper. So Harry's not used to losing, being second best or sitting in the middle of the bed while Zayn gloats, wrapped around his back. Even if Harry's pouting, sulking as only he knows how, he's also trying to hide his smile, a laugh on the tip of his tongue, because as Zayn kisses up and down the length of his neck, it's hard to pretend he's worse off in any way. Harry's always the winner.

On their way back, they can't keep their hands off of each other for long enough to walk in a straight line, Zayn practically climbing in Harry's lap before they even make it out of his house. It's an attraction Harry's never felt before, a need crawling under his skin he's only ever heard of in Anne's stories, saw on Anne's face when she looks at Robin like she did at Des, once. There's something else pumping through Harry's heart when Zayn looks at him, his hazel eyes that Harry swears change colour with the boy's mood, the way he slings his arm around Harry's waist when they get back to the bonfire and doesn't hide it, doesn't hide them.

They sit down on the rock again, closer than before and the other's didn't seem to notice how long they've been gone. Kevin offers Harry another beer which Harry politely declines and Anne asks Zayn if he needs a blanket. He presses into Harry's side and say a quiet, “No need.”

“How old are you?” Harry asks once everyone is settled, when the couples are all tangled on their towels around the dying fire, murmuring to themselves in their own little worlds, just like Zayn and him.

“I'm legal,” is what Zayn says as an answer, like that was remotely why Harry was asking.

“No, I didn't mean it like that,” he turns so he can look at Zayn.

“Twenty.”

“So you're barely legal?” he chuckles and turns away when Zayn lightly punches him in his shoulder. Harry pouts at him and bats his eyelashes. “You're mean. I was just stating the facts.”

“Yeah yeah. How old are you, then? Thirty?”

Harry gasps, which really only makes Zayn laugh louder. “I'm only twenty-one.”

“Ew, you're old,” Zayn goes to stand, but Harry quickly pulls him down again, half into his lap.

“I am in the prime of my life,” Harry kisses Zayn's cheek like it's what they always do, bicker over stupid shit to just pass the time.

Zayn presses his head in the crook of Harry's neck and stays there, one leg over Harry's like it's his favourite way to sit when they're together. It's so familiar Harry thinks he should back off, if only for the lack of weirdness in it. But it's not enough to actually make him move or not hold Zayn's hip, take Zayn's hand in his and intertwine their fingers.

“How are you liking our town's specialities so far?” Zayn hums quietly, twisting and turning their hands, observing how they move together, how Harry's hand is bigger, but Zayn's more muscular.

“Oh, they're the best yet I think,” Harry smiles into Zayn's hair. “Really liking the hospitality.”

“You do, do you?”

“Mhm, could get used to this.”

“Yeah.” Zayn sighs and disentangles himself from Harry, jumps off the rock. “Me too,” he says with a smile that holds the whole world in its curve, everything Harry's ever dreamed of, everything he's ever though of while lying awake in his bed at three in the morning. Everything he's pushed underneath his pillow. Zayn gives him his hand and Harry takes it, unsure but ready.

“Picture time,” Zayn announces loudly.

Everyone grunts but gets up, lines up where Zayn's walked off to, a somewhat straight line of smiling faces looking tired but satisfied, happy and young.

“Wait,” Harry interrupts as Zayn holds a camera to his face. “Get in there,” he pushes Zayn away with his hip and smiles at him.

Zayn stands at the far end of the line, the last person on the right and as he puts his hands in his pockets and hunches over, tries to make himself smaller, Harry looks directly at him and rolls his shoulders back, instructing without words. Zayn sees him and smiles, straightens a little, but doesn't pull his hands out of his pockets. He looks at Harry and it's like Harry's the only thing he sees.

He's the only one without an arm around his waist, but Harry doesn't mind in the slightest, thinks Zayn couldn't look better than he does, not quite smiling but with something in his eyes, dangerous and calling, urging Harry on and asking a question, daring. Even with the other four couples smiling blindingly at Harry, waiting for him to take their picture and moving around each other, excited and slightly drunk, it's Zayn that Harry wants to take a picture of, to materialize forever. His hair sways with the slight wind and Harry knows that's it, as everyone else settles and he raises the camera, Harry knows that's the photo that changed everything.

They laugh and cheer, raise their bottles in the air as Harry gives Anne her camera and walks over to Zayn, grabs him by his neck and kisses him like he's never wanted to kiss anyone before. He kisses Zayn, holds him close and tries to tell him  _I don't just like you_ , _We're not strangers_  and  _I don't know what this is, but I don't want it to end_. It's painful and it hurts, but it feels so right and so good, like Harry is finally getting what he's wanted since he was six, what he was always promised. It's an unpolished trophy that doesn't shine in the sun, doesn't rust in the rain and can never fall off a shelf and break. It's Zayn's hands on his hips, holding on like he knows it's just a dream Harry probably won't remember. It's the cheers of everyone around them, laughing and blissed-out on their simple lives, nothing more to them that every man's.

It's the way Zayn murmurs, “Come back,” into Harry's lips right before Harry falls off the couch with a heavy thump.


	2. 2003

“Mom,” Harry practically cries out when he's brought back to reality, his cheek smashed into the hardwood floor. “Mom!”

“Shh, Gemma's still sleeping.”

“Like shit she is,” Gemma grumbles, her body twisted into a pretzel in the corner of the couch.

“Language,” Anne simply says, warning enough.

“Tell that to the screaming child.”

“What's wrong, honey?”

Anne is looking at him with those eyes all mothers have, worried and caring, ready to help with whatever's happening. But Harry doesn't know what's happening. One moment he was living his dream, standing in the midst of cheers and happy laughter he thinks is still ringing in his ears, with Zayn's lips so close Harry wants to taste him again – maybe he still can – and the next he's here, on the floor and not knowing what's going on or how he got here.

“What?” he says, blinks to clear his head.

“What do you mean _what_?”

“Gemma, let your brother breathe.” Anne comes from the kitchen, a cup of coffee in one hand and freshly squeezed orange juice in the other.

“Did you have a bad dream?”

“What?” It's an echo, because even when Harry takes a ginger sip of juice, his head's jumbled, he's confused and not altogether there. “I mean... What?”

Gemma groans and falls back down on the couch. “Are you kidding me?”

“Give your brother a break.”

“What?” It's an endless loop, the only thing Harry knows how to say properly without having his mind twist and knot.

“Say what one more time,” Harry gets an angry finger pointed towards him and a very angry looking Gemma growling under her breath.

“Is that a double dare?” Harry asks, because it's the first thing besides what that pops into his head, and scrambles to stand up, run away as fast as his feet will take him, Gemma right behind him.

Good, it's a good sign that he's being chased around the house by his barely older sister while Anne pleads them hopelessly to stop – she knows that's not how it works – because it means Harry's fine. It means that his brain is working and functioning enough for him to piss off Gemma. It means everything's back to normal.

They run around the dining room table, Anne standing on the sidelines with her hands on her hips because there's no way they're stopping now, not with the promise of additional chores for acting like children. Harry dashes back to the living room and barely manages to climb over the couch, Gemma on the other side. She smiles in the way Harry loves, taunting and daring, and happy as well, so of course he isn't going to surrender and admit defeat. Running one way to throw Gemma off, he turns and bolts it for the patio, barely managing to not knock over Anne's glass vase on his way. But as Harry runs outside in the hopes of having more space to work with, thick sand he's used to running on – so he knows he has to use his heels, keep his feet light to not get stuck and Gemma doesn't –  it's like an overload, like his brain can't quite keep up with what Harry wants but can't bring himself to do.

Harry knows how to run on sand, the wet strip right at the water's edge he usually sticks to when he runs barefoot, and he knows the ocean; how its sounds in the morning, how it reflects the sun's white and yellow and late orange rays off the surface, calming in its vastness and terrifying in its depths. Harry has seen it at every given time, winter or spring, the moon high in the sky or rain blurring the lines of ocean and land, but it all escapes him, as he stays standing there, stuck and thinking about Zayn.

The taste of smoke and beer, bitter and sweet, hazel brown with sticky honey and a single dark chocolate fleck. Leather and cotton, sweat and tongue and Zayn's voice, the thickness of his vowels and his lips, swollen from how Harry kissed him. The skin of Zayn's neck bit and bruised  because Harry wanted Zayn to remember. Harry wanted to make sure he'll never forget the feeling of Zayn being so close to him – close enough Harry almost couldn't breathe. But now that he's here and Zayn isn't, he doesn't think there's any air left in his lungs.

Now Harry can't think of anything else except that spark, those flashing lights behind his eyelids exploding in reds and blues and purples he's sure were there the ones he’s only heard of. Harry feels a tingling in his chest, like thousands of tiny needles are pinned to his shirt, scraping at his skin and leaving the smallest of bruises all over his heart. He can see the sand, can hear the crashing of waves, as his hair sways with the breeze, but all Harry can think about is how the sand was cold, how he couldn't hear the waves or focus on anything besides Zayn – and nothing has ever captured Harry like that.

He feels like he's standing in the middle of a desert, hot sand between his toes. The air's dry and hot, burning his lungs as he tries to breathe, but he can't really, not with feeling like there's no oxygen left, like he's used it all up by running away from Gemma. Harry hunches over and grabs his knees, wants to gather himself before he hears footsteps behind him. This isn't where he and Zayn walked last night, they went in the complete opposite direction towards where Zayn lives, and yet Harry can still see them, still remembers like he's back there, how Zayn's eyes reflected the moon's glow.

It was calming, peaceful in the way driving without a destination is, getting lost to find yourself on the road you were looking for in the first place. Just circling around the same streets because it's in the rhythm of it, the repetition of patterns and trees and houses flying past you like a dream. It felt right having Zayn next to him, brushing Harry's shoulder as they lost themselves in words and it felt like two pieces of puzzles that didn't belong together slot into one nonetheless – against the odds.

So Harry doesn't know why he feels like he can't breathe because of it, the heady rush of remembering what it was like to have Zayn so close – except that he does. Harry can't stop running his mind over how it was, the small touches and quick kisses that do little to rest his worries, because it was the best dream Harry's ever had.

“You giving up?” Gemma asks when she comes to stand next to him, smiling wearily.

“Never,” Harry smiles back, but he knows it's not honest. “Just taking a break.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Of course,” Harry doesn't think before he answers, doesn't really want to. “Ran out of breath.”

“Sure,” she hums knowingly. Harry's always loved running, the feeling of pushing a button for a short pause as the world spins past in flashes – escapism at its easiest and best. “Had fun yesterday?”

Harry smiles again, actually puts effort into it this time, because of course he had fun, of course he enjoyed every minute of it.

“Thought so,” Gemma chuckles. “How much money did you get anyway? If you got more than I did last year, I swear I'm throwing another party for myself.”

“I'm not telling you,” Harry looks at her and turns around, feels a little daring. “You'll never know.”

“Oh, come one,” she's walking after him now, complaining to his back. “That's not fair and you know it. I'm the good kid in this family.”

“And I'm not saying you're not,” Harry shrugs as he pushes past the glass door and steps inside the house. It feels like cheating, like he's stepping on Gemma's blisters when he turns to look at her over his shoulder and says, as collectively as he can, “But I am the younger kid. And, I'm charming and sweet. Completely innocent little Harry, who can now buy himself a new laptop.”

He exaggerates his blinking at the end to emphasize his point, shots her a simple grin just because he can, and it really does feel like he's rubbing salt in her wounds.

But that's how it is, that's how the Styles' family is organized, with Gemma being the hard-worker and Harry being the poor child, the little boy who still hasn't grown up. It's always been like that, and Harry can't say he doesn't eat it up, revel in it solely because he can, but it can have a bitter taste to it sometimes. It's a double edged sword, because no matter what he does, how hard he works or what he'll end up doing with his life, Harry'll still be the kid that's too young to 'get it'. Harry's stuck being the seven year old that doesn't see exactly what's going on in front of his eyes, like he's dumb or something as equally ridiculous.

Gemma leaves before Harry, says that she has to get back to Los Angeles, back to work, run this or that errand and meet some or other friend. She makes about ten excuses too many before she's buckling her seat-belt in her car and waving through her window, driving off.

Those late comers that have about as good excuses as Gemma start showing up after ten, when Harry was supposed to go back himself, go back to hiding the pleasure and joy he feels when someone hugs him, and pretend like it's not his favourite thing in the world. The wishes are the same, the hugs are longer and the envelopes are thicker. Harry expects their reasons for not making it yesterday and brushes them off, thinks better than to let the remarks stocking on his tongue slip.

It's not their fault that they didn't care enough, that they don't and never will care about Harry in the way he wants them to. It's not even about them, Harry knows, so he sits at their dining room table and then moves with the group to the patio when Anne brings out yesterday's leftovers. It's not much different than last night was, their eyes and questions still aimed at Harry, and it still feels like it should, so Harry doesn't complain, but it has lost some of its zeal, so to speak. It's not quite measuring up to the way it would've been if they had taken the time yesterday to make enough of an effort to show up.

When the last person hugs Harry goodbye and wishes him all the best, Anne sighs hugely and collapses on the couch, the food outside momentarily forgotten. “I'm getting too old for this,” she says, her head tucked underneath Robin's arm.

“You're not old.”

“I didn't say I was old,” she corrects Robin, who laughs inwardly, his belly shaking.

“You're not young.” Harry doesn't know why he says it, why he had the urge to put it out there, make it clear and loud enough for all of them to hear.

“I'm still not old,” Anne clarifies again, like it's nothing, like she didn't hear Harry's tone. “You leaving?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you pack everything?”

“Yeah.”

Anne turns and looks at Harry over the back of the couch. “Want some food to take with you?”

“No.”

“What about cake. Niall will probably want some cake.”

“Then he should've been here.”

“Fine,” Anne huffs and stands up with some effort. “Come here.”

Harry wants to ask her why she doesn't say anything, reprimand him for being short and snappish, but he leaves it be for once, and walks over to his mom. They hug for a long minute and it's comfortable, the way hugging your mother is supposed to be. A hug can keep everything else at bay, just for as long as it lasts, a short one armed greeting or a long embrace filled with love and care that Harry can feel humming in his bones. She kisses the side of his head and Harry almost asks her to do it again.

“Go, go,” she swats Harry away, half pushing him towards the front door. “Text me when you get there, yeah?.”

“I will,” Harry says and looks at Anne, the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, at her straight hair and the small diamond earrings Robin bought her for their anniversary two years ago. Harry wants to hug her again. Maybe it's because Harry wants to make sure she's really there or maybe it's because he just wants to hug his mom again, but instead, he just smiles and turns around, shouts “Bye Robin!” a little too loudly probably, but Anne simply smiles back and waves, waits for him to drive around the corner before she closes the door.

And that's also how it's been, Harry driving back to college every Monday morning, rested an full, with a little bitterness stuck in his throat. There've been moments, small fleeting ones Harry can barely remember - because he tries to not think about them-, when he forgets. Just moments of putting something to the back of your head where they build up again and simmer, get ready to jump right back out.

When they go out every couple of months and sit together in a restaurant as a family, a unit, Harry forgets that the man opposite him isn't the same man who taught him how to ride a bike - or really, how not to fall off one. Robin wasn't there when Harry had his first crush on a girl from his grade school, Stephanie, blonde and bold, and Robin doesn't know that Stephanie kicked Harry when he tried to kiss her cheek on the playground. Robin wasn't there when Harry cried himself to sleep that night, convinced no one is ever going to like him enough to let him kiss their cheeks at the age of five, but as Robin makes Anne laugh like that, free and with little snorts, Harry forgets. Harry doesn't remember to not forget about his dad and he forgets that Des should always be remembered, no matter how good Robin is to Anne or how happy she is around him.

Harry does remember when both Des and Robin are in a room together like they were on Sunday, when there are two father figures right in front of him, and yet Harry doesn't know who to call his dad. Sometimes, Harry thinks he's lucky to have two dads, two male figures in his life he does care about, but really, he feels like he barely has two halves. Des left and Robin's been here for a good half of it, and it's not supposed to be like that, it was never supposed to be like that. Anne and Des were meant to stay together, they were meant to survive and grow old and never be able to live without each other. Harry thought true love like theirs couldn't get divorced, but then he remembers Robin, and Harry wonders if he even knows anything about true love.

That first week when Des moved out was the hardest. Gemma didn't have a problem adjusting to the empty chair at the dinner table and she even said how much she liked that there was more room on the couch, but past his favourite meals and two scoops of ice cream, Harry still woke up every morning expecting his dad to be reading the newspaper, drinking coffee sip by slow sip. Harry still expected his dad to be there.

And now Harry doesn't know whether calling Robin 'dad' would feel right on his tongue, or if the word would be sour, like 'bye' is every time Des leaves.

Harry hasn't missed how Robin comes home from work every Monday morning to see him off, but only because Harry doesn't know why. Harry doesn't know why Robin insists on being there, offering a small smile as Harry rolls down the window to wave and look at how well Robin's arm fits around Anne's waist. What Harry does know is that they both look happy and in love, and even if Anne doesn't quite look at Robin like she did Des, with hearts in her eyes and an awe Harry wants to feel himself one day, Harry wouldn't mind looking at their photos or hearing Anne talk about how much she loves Robin. At least Harry's pretty sure he wouldn't mind.

 

Some people know how to be alone for hours if not days, with no one there, no one besides themselves sitting on their bed while they watch reruns of their favourite tv-show. Maybe they learnt how to live in the quietness of their own thoughts or maybe it's not voluntary, maybe they just don’t have anyone to sit with. And as some take long walks to clear their heads, others need to be alone for a little while to recharge and regroup, get back to a normal level of energy flowing through their veins, because being around people gets to be too much at times.

Harry understands how it feels to need the quiet and the peace – those long walks on the beach are the only therapy he'll ever need – and Harry gets that people can be overwhelming to the point where the back of your neck starts to sweat and the air feels so humid it's like breathing underwater. Every person has their own way of dealing and coping, and while Harry's been known to remove himself from situations that got to be too much too fast, he's never been able to understand how some people stand to be alone.

When Harry was eleven, Anne and Gemma left him alone to go to a spa for the weekend – girl's time they called it – and Harry remembers how excited he was, overflowing with the anticipation of being left to his own devices for the whole weekend, Anne's trust thumping through his head. Harry made plans, had every minute of his freedom worked out, like strutting around the house naked with no one yelling at him to put his clothes back on and eating whatever he wanted, not what Anne decided to make. Harry wanted to spend the whole weekend watching movies in the living room with the big TV all to himself, movies he had wanted to finally see or see again, and binge eat on popcorn and jellybeans until his stomach hurt. Harry was really looking forward to dancing around the house naked.

In the end, he did spend that Friday night watching _The Notebook_ and _Love Actually_ , and Harry's stomach did bloat from all the sugar, but around midnight, when the naked dancing should have started, Harry couldn't take it anymore, the emptiness or the suffocating freedom. So harry ended up calling Niall and Louis. His plans didn't actually change by much, but Harry did feel like he let himself down a little, which was kind of disappointing, and Harry also ended up wearing boxers at all times, because Louis made a face when Harry had asked if they'd be bothered.

When the time came for Harry to really go, to leave and never come back – or that's how it felt like – all the way to college, leaving his family behind, he first thought he was going to chain himself to his bedpost just so that they couldn't _make_ him. Harry thought about getting a job and forgoing college altogether, but surprisingly, leaving wasn't that hard. Harry had expected there to be a rebellion and a struggle, a bargaining where he's try to convince Anne to let her baby boy stay home, because Harry _was_ her baby, definitely too young to survive all by his innocent self in the wilderness that is California.

When Anne naively suggested that Harry should go to a dorm first, Harry was already half way down to his knees. As much as Harry could never live by himself, he knew he didn't have the energy to move in with complete strangers – Anne never understood what a hardship it is for Harry to twist and turn at people's wills and wrap all their strings around his fingers. And a dorm entailed a lot of strings.

So Harry happily settled on the next best thing: Niall. Louis was set to make surfing his main point of life – and income – and as no one ever mentioned the fact he needed to have two other jobs – the club and a surf shop, which took a big chunk of time out of his surfing time – Louis thought he was making it work – still does. But Niall had wanted to study music since he was a barely walking toddler, a guitar already strapped over his shoulders; so majoring in music meant he needed a place to live. And someone to live with.

Niall's parents have always been very free-willed to put it nicely, a consequence of growing up in the 60s and a little too much LSD and acid in their teens, but as far as bohemian hippies go, Harry's always admired how they decided to bring Niall up. No restrictions and more of a 'learn from your own mistakes' philosophy than anything else, which could have gone so very very wrong, but Niall's grown up into the kindest, most considerate guitar player Harry's ever met. Niall's parents aren't the youngest, sure, and most often than not they're too high to really know what's going on, but just like Niall, they've always welcomed Harry with open arms - and a batch of brownies.

It was kind of perfect when Harry and Niall got a place together up North, because Niall was used to the energy stones and the scented candles feng-shuied around the apartment. Niall didn't have a problem if Harry wanted to cleanse his energy before an exam to give him an extra piece of good luck, and Harry knew how much Niall could eat, so the fact that they spend loads on pizzas and chips wasn't anything Harry didn't already expect.

Niall's calm and he doesn't take up too much space, he isn't messy and he always smells nice. He warns Harry when the amount of buttons he leaves undone gets a little too high for classes and comments on how well Harry's scarf and shirt match – but sometimes, the clashing patterns are the whole point and Niall doesn't seem get that. Niall takes care of Harry when Harry doesn't have time or simply forgets to, ordering from Harry's favourite Thai place and making Harry take a shower. And Niall always, always covers Harry with a blanket if he dozes off watching one of his shows. So Niall has more than proven himself as an amazing roommate and an even better friend.

Harry could never live alone, mostly because he needs someone there to talk to, to listen and nod at the very least, just follow his words as Harry tries to make sense of them himself. Not always though because sometimes just having someone there is enough. But as an option, a sure thing Harry can count on if he needs to think out loud or if he desperately wants a second opinion.

By Friday night, when he’s finally able to collapse on the couch next to Niall, Harry’s so tired, he doesn't think he'll be able to lift his feet on the coffee table. It's been a week of waking up at seven in the morning to go to his eight o'clock classes and diligently doing his homework to not get stuck behind textbooks for the weekend.

“I'm not watching that,” Harry grumbles as soon as he registers that Niall's watching football.

“No one's making you,” Niall laughs, but it's not his usual sunny sound, it's more of the tired and bored one, the one Harry's sure Niall has to force to come out.

“Oh come one. You've had the TV all for yourself for like a week,” Harry pouts. “It's my turn now.”

“I never agreed to those stupid conditions. Now be quiet, I'm trying to watch a game here.”

Harry could be the bigger person here and continue to pout for the next ten minutes, because that's usually how long it take for Niall to give in, but as it turns out, Harry doesn't want to and is too tired to be the bigger person. So he starts shouting random words straight into Niall's ear, who – bless him – doesn't punch Harry's lights out, just sighs and hands over the remote. Harry smiles hugely and cuddles into Niall's side as he switches the channel to the cooking show.

Harry hasn't had the chance to think about anything besides his homework and papers and the group project he's trying to get out of, and Niall's more or less been asleep on the couch by the time Harry emerged from his bedroom or the library. Niall also actually has the time to go out, to enjoy the student's life Harry doesn’t really have the time for. So they haven't had the chance to do this all week, just hang out together, watch TV or talk about their days. And it's not that Harry's selfish or needy, but he missed Niall and his easy presence that can somehow always put Harry at ease.

Usually, him and Niall would at least make time for dinner during the week, to catch up and exchange gossip – and because Harry insists on having Niall as his guinea-pig for the more out-there recipes he likes to try out – but that's been impossible with Harry falling asleep as soon as he came home and Niall's night long band practice.

So when Harry starts sighing and humming lowly, pushing his head into Niall's side, he doesn't think Niall much minds playing with his hair.

“I've been thinking,” Niall starts cryptically, and his tone is serious enough that Harry has the need to say, “Yeah?”

“You know that girl from my elective I was telling you about? I think I'm gonna ask her out.”

“Oh,” Harry opens his eyes a little wider to try to keep himself awake for this. He moves his head by an inch to prompt Niall's petting again. “I think she's nice.”

“You haven't met her yet.”

“But from what you've told me, I think she'd be great for you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes Niall. You said she's easy going and really talented. Ask her out,” Harry says, completely confident the girl's gonna swoon over Niall's undeniable charm.

“Okay,” Niall nods affirmatively. “I'm gonna ask her out. Okay.”

“Um,” Harry stars after a moment of silence, unsure. “I have news too.”

Niall dislodges himself from Harry and turns to sit cross-legged on the couch, looking at Harry with a semi-tired expression. “Spill.”

Harry nods and mirrors Niall, crosses his legs too. And then Harry doesn't know what to do. He takes a deep breath and clears his throat like he's about to give a speech or recite _The Devine Comedy,_ by heart no less. It's a big thing, Harry has to tell himself, which isn't exactly a lie, because Harry's never felt like this, like what he's about to say is so important that he really needs to get it right, capture everything with the right words so he doesn't end up underselling Zayn.

Harry settles on starting from the beginning, because he also doesn't want to miss anything – no detail too small. “So last weekend I went home, right?”

“Harry, that's not news.”

“Shh. Last weekend I went home, and I met someone.” Harry bites his lip as soon as he says it, because wow talk about selling someone short, but Niall just shakes his head and looks thoroughly unimpressed.

“Again, nothing new.”

Harry's sure he blew it, because as good of a friend as Niall is, his attention span is nothing to write home about. It sounded like a good beginning, like a story that'll have Niall at the edge of his seat, but maybe Harry ended up over-thinking this whole thing to make it sound as heart swelling as it really was. With no words to express just what it all meant to him, with no words to explain how it's never been like that, Harry doesn't think telling Niall is such a good idea after all.

Then again, it's Niall, who doesn't judge and always listens, and it's not like he'll think Harry is insane – not if Harry keeps some of those important details to himself.

“I think I may have possibly fell in love a little?”

“Okay... I'm listening,” Niall leans back.

“No, it's not like– ” Harry cuts himself off, because it's not like what? Not like he met the first person he didn't need to charm? Not like he didn’t even think about looking for Zayn’s strings? Not like Harry met the guy of his dreams _in_ his dreams?

For a quick second, Harry wants to take it back, yell 'psych' and continue on as if he never opened his mouth, but it only lasts for that second, the doubt, because as soon as he thinks of Zayn and as soon as Harry remembers everything he didn't have time for until now, he feels himself smile so bright, he's sure his face flushes.

“Wow.” Niall has just about the most worried expression Harry's ever seen on his face.

“I know,” Harry breathes and smiles at himself, because that’s exactly how he would describe Zayn. A big wow Harry doesn't know what to do with, a big question mark Harry's not sure is real.

“Wait,” Niall raises his hands in alarm, worried all over again. “It's not Nina again, is it? Please tell me it isn't Nina – Shit. Did David call you again?”

“Niall, it's not– You don't know him,” Harry laughs at how much Niall clearly likes his exes.

“Oh, so it's a him, huh?” Niall wiggles his eyebrows and it's not funny, so Harry doesn't know why he's laughing.

“It's not just a him though, it's the one, Niall. I can feel it.”

Right next to his heart, Harry's sure he can really feel it and maybe that's how you know. Maybe it's in the way your heart changes its rhythm that you know you finally found love.

“So when are you seeing him again?” Niall asks and jumps once in his seat, clearly not hiding his excitement.

“I've no idea.”

“Where's the problem? Why aren't you drooling all over him right now?”

“I don't droll over people.”

“Don't change the subject,” Niall points at Harry and Harry knows that if Niall was standing, he's be tapping his foot with his hands on his hips.

Harry sighs and rubs at his eyes. He can't tell Niall, not everything, not the most important part, Harry has to keep that to himself. “It's difficult for reasons I'm not telling you, because you don't deserve to know yet.” And with that, Harry stands up and walks off to the bathroom. He can hear Niall's protests even with the door closed and the water running, but Harry's always been great at deflecting all unwanted noise.

*

All of his windows are rolled down, because there's something about the morning air that Harry loves. Harry's never been a morning person in the sense of waking up at the ass crack of dawn looking and feeling fresh. It usually takes him a while to convince himself that getting out of bed is what he should be doing instead of letting his eyes close again, and then another couple of minutes to actually roll out of bed, groggy and grumpy, but once he's showered, stretched and had his orange juice, Harry can embrace the morning. No matter if it's six in the morning and he can barely keep his eyes open, Harry will always take a lung full of air as soon as he steps outside.

But his Sunday drives have that extra zeal to them, the air cleaner and fresher, welcomed with Harry's open arms like it means more than just coming home. It's always the same turns on the same highway leading him to the same house where Harry can go to sleep without checking if the door is locked. When Harry is home, he's surrounded by familiar territory, by the people that have always been there, the people that know him best. It's a comfort and a privilege, a blessing to have that one sanctuary where everything is in its place and every piece belongs.

By the time Harry steps into the house, an early lunch is already served on the back patio, a salad and fresh bread fingers Harry loves; Anne and Robin ready to eat.

“How was school?” Robin asks, and maybe he feels like he has to, but Harry's always appreciated the sentiment of caring – even when it's forced.

“You know,” Harry says around a mouthful. “Classes, homework and more classes. But it’s good, almost done.”

“How's Niall?” Anne asks.

“He's good. Finished most of his assignments already, which you know, sucks for me.”

“Bobby is so proud of him.”

“Bobby would be proud of Niall no matter what,” Harry scoffs as he puts down his fork, feeling full and tired.

“Harry,” Anne's tone is nothing short of scolding and Harry notices how Robin looks down at his plate like he's trying to keep out it, but Harry thinks Robin should join Anne, Robin should say something as well.

“I'm not trying to devalue Niall's hard work mom, I'm just saying Bobby is a great dad.”

She ends up humming a somewhat pleased tone, so Harry doesn't explain further even though he could, for hours. Harry could talk their ears off when it comes to Niall's parents, who never missed a single recital, who bought Niall his first guitar because they felt the music in his energy – who never left Niall, not once. But Harry keeps quiet and continues to answer their questions about college or whatever it is Anne or Robin want to talk about. Harry was looking forward to the weekend, he worked really hard for the free time he could now spend with his family, but as of five minutes of home, the sentiment has passed.

He ends up spending the rest of the day on the couch, rotating from lying on his stomach to trying to get comfortable on his back. There's nothing interesting on the TV and Harry's too submerged in his own thoughts to follow anything Anne or Robin talk about.

Harry isn't usually like this, lazy and listless, bored but not trying to find himself something to do. He's a busy person, always has this or that to do or people to meet and places to see. He could easily find something. Harry could call Louis, Niall, go to the beach, cook something new with Anne or study if all else fails. But Harry just doesn't _feel_ like it. Harry doesn't feel like lying on the couch all day either, but it takes the least amount of energy and he can't be bothered to move.

When both Anne and Robin go to bed, Harry's at a loss. He hasn't done anything all day, so he's not exactly tired, but since it's close to one in the morning, he thinks he could manage to close his eyes and pretend to sleep for a while.

Harry decides that moving to his bed would be too time consuming, so he pulls the throw back over his legs and curls on his side, looking out at the calm ocean's surface and the starless sky. He almost starts thinking about how sad that is, that you can't see the stars at night because of all the lights, the endless pollution that is man, but that's too deep for Harry's current mood, so he averts his eyes to the book shelves next to the glass vase Anne says is priceless, and tries to think about when was the last time he read a book for himself. It's been too long, Harry concludes as his mind drifts and he stands, walks over to the shelves and picks up the deep green album.

Harry isn't a nostalgic person, he doesn't like to dwell on his childhood as much as he likes Anne's past and everything that comes with it. Harry's convinced he hasn't actually lived yet, no memories of his own _worth_ remembering yet in his arsenal of things to think about, but Harry doesn't mind, because as long as he has Anne's green album, he doesn't need his own memories. Harry can be happy with Anne's photos for a little while longer.

Opening the album at random, Harry lands on a big photo focused on Anne and Des with unknown faces blurred in the background. She looks so happy and Des looks so proud, like being able to wrap his arm around Anne's waist is his best and biggest achievement. It probably was. And Anne looks as if there's no place she could ever belong to as much as Des's side. Des looks like he wouldn't ever want to be anywhere else but right there, next to Anne. It makes Harry smile sadly.

By the looks of their hair and clothes, Harry would say the photo isn't as old as last week's was, and when he takes it out of the little slits and turns it around, he sees it was taken in the summer of 2003.

Harry gets lost in the their eyes, Des's more than familiar green that Harry sees every time he looks in the mirror and is reminded of every time he meets someone new and they can't stop staring. But it's Anne's smile that he likes more, that feels more like a part of him. Her lips are parted a little and stretch almost from ear to ear, dimples in her cheeks that Des had said were the reason he fell head over heels for her. They look so young, Harry thinks about how he will look in twenty, thirty years, if he'll have wrinkles around his eyes too and if he'll need a midday nap like Robin sometimes does.

He puts the photo back and turns the plastic page, hopes to see another photo of Anne and Des taking over the space and his thoughts. Harry needs to be reminded that he could end up being that happy one day.

What he sees is a different couple, Liv and Kevin, who has a more trimmed if grown out beard. They look happy as well, more complacent than radiating joy and love, but they're still together, so Harry thinks maybe too much love also isn't the best thing. Maybe Harry'll find someone who'll love him just enough, and will want to live with chrysolite and hematite crystals laid around the tables for positive energy to flow freely around the space they'll create together.

It's the photo on the next page that has Harry closing his eyes, because it actually hurts to keep them open. It's a photo of Zayn, just Zayn, a clear and completely focused close up of his face. He's standing in the middle of the beach in a leather jacket, but Harry can tell it isn't the same one, the one Harry held on to when Zayn pressed his lips against Harry's. It's bulkier and has more silver studs around the collar and shoulders, but it looks just as good on Zayn, of course it does, Harry thinks. He pulls his feet up on the couch and balances the album on his knees as he looks down at it, now unable to close his eyes.

Zayn's just standing there, looking directly at the camera and it makes Harry pull the photo up to his face to see Zayn's eyes, the fleck next to his iris just as Harry remembers, the little birthmark next to his nose, another above his eyebrow, below his lip. Harry remembers how he kissed every single dot he found on Zayn's face, connecting them with his lips like a game when Zayn was lying on his back underneath him, sprawled out and sated.

There's a necklace around Zayn's neck Harry doesn't recognize, doesn't know the meaning or importance of, and it irks him, bothers him to the point of stomping off to wake Anne and berate her with question after question. The necklace doesn't have a pendant but a ring, a simple golden ring Harry wants to throw into the deepest part of the ocean and make Zayn forget all about it.

In his simple white t-shirt, Harry can see the edges of what must be tattoos, tips of feathers under both of Zayn's collarbones that weren't there the last time Harry had seen Zayn's chest. His skin was smooth and muscles toned, clear and without a single imperfection. Harry almost got lost enjoying the planes of it, marking it up and biting into all the sharp edges of Zayn's hips.

But Zayn looks happy, he looks younger with his hair this short and Harry's not sure he likes it, but Zayn's beard, covering his cheekbones and jaw, lining up from above his lip to his chin, Harry thinks he could get used to. Harry has to press his legs together when he thinks about how it would feel, if it would burn his skin, if it would drive him crazy every time Zayn moved his mouth.

Closing his eyes and the album, Harry leans back against the couch and breathes. He can't do this, Harry's sure, he can't be completely consumed with the idea of someone he hasn't actually met. Harry breathes and he knows he's young, that this is probably a part of growing up, wanting something you can't have. But Harry's never encountered something he couldn't have, something he couldn't just reach for and grab, take as his own and keep for as long as he'd like. So maybe it's just that, the first thing that's so out of reach, Harry has to dream about it to taste it, to hold it and have it. Maybe it'll pass. Harry's sure that it would be the kind of love that doesn't last anyway, the too big one, the intense one that breaks hearts rather than brings them together, so he takes another deep breath and calms down, puts the album back in its place and goes out to the beach.

The feeling of sand getting between his toes has always annoyed Harry, the prickling things that get stuck in his hair until he has them trimmed. The only way to reach the ocean gets too hot to walk on the days Harry would do anything for a quick dip. He remembers playing in the shade when he was younger, building sand castles with Niall and Louis that rivaled all the other kids', because they really worked for it, walked all the way down to the water to bring some back so that the sand would stick together, like a make-believe glue. Harry remembers his own high school parties and bonfires on the beach, Louis going mad with the power of building the fire. He thinks about the times he snuck back home in the early hours, thinking he was stealth incarnate he might turn out to be a ninja one second, and falling over the chair on the patio that came out of nowhere in the next. As Harry walks down the beach, he realizes he does have memories of his own, simple and common, the ones every other twenty year old has in his repertoire of stories to tell, but none are as valuable as Anne’s.

He picks a random spot and sits down on the sand, knowing he’ll drag tons of it back to the house and Anne’ll be a little mad, sure, but Harry can’t help himself as he buries his feet in. The sand is colder now that the sun has set, a little wet where Harry’s toes are digging in deeper as he moves them around. There’s no one in sight as he looks left and right, no one but the moon high above, and this is how it feels to be alone, Harry guesses, no one there but him and his confused thoughts.

It can’t be more than a couple minutes that Harry sits there, but the haziness and the silence make him feel like it’s been hours, like he should be expecting the sun to rise soon, the sand to start burning again. Ten minutes at most have past when Harry feels someone walk up to him from behind, the slow sounds of crunching sand getting closer and closer, but Harry doesn’t move, doesn’t have to turn to see who it is. Harry knows it’s Zayn before he can hear him, before he glances to his right and sees Zayn sit down next to him, burring his toes in the sand as well.

“Hi,” Zayn says gently, his voice a thick hum, just like Harry remembers.

“Hi.”

Zayn looks just like he did in the photo when Harry does turn his head, blinking slowly as his eyes run over Zayn’s face and chest and legs and every part he can see and catalogue for later. His hair is short and spiky, no longer elegantly framing his face. The dot next to Zayn’s iris is still there, and Harry has the passing thought that he should maybe look away, avert his eyes back to the ocean, but Zayn doesn’t stop looking either, hasn’t stopped grinning shyly, so Harry continues the peruse over everything that’s changed, everything that’s stayed the same.

Something clicks when Zayn blinks lazily, eyelashes fanning over his cheeks - it’s like an internal mechanism slotting into the correct  sequence that Zayn must hear as well, because as Harry starts to slowly lean in, he hears a steady rhythm of click click click grow louder the closer they get to each other. Zayn closes his eyes and licks over his lips. Like lying your head on a soft pillow, it’s in slow motion when their lips meet, a gentle graze, the clicks sparking behind Harry’s eyelids. Zayn sighs and Harry can feel how his whole body relaxes, eases into Harry when he goes to cup Zayn’s cheek - a familiar motion Zayn must remember as well.

“You came back,” Zayn says when he moves away, their foreheads pressing together. “You came back.”

Harry licks his lips and nods, kisses Zayn again because he’s right there and Harry can touch him now, can taste him and have Zayn to hold and to keep for as long as he likes.

“Where am I?” Harry asks, cautiously and with his eyes closed, because if this is another dream, he doesn’t think he wants to wake up.

“You’re here,” Zayn kisses his left cheek, then his right, then Harry’s lips twice and Harry can hear them, the clicks coming from Zayn too.

“I’ve been waiting for so long,” Zayn goes on and the desperate tone of his words makes Harry crave for that quietness, a delusion he’d be ready to live with. “But now you’re back.”

“I’ve missed you,” Harry whispers, ducks his head down.

“You have no idea.”

“I thought- I thought you were gone.”

“I’m right here,” Zayn lifts Harry’s head and looks straight at him, and Harry can feel it, he knows Zayn is telling him the truth. “I’ll always be here.”

“So this,” Harry grabs at Zayn’s side and holds on, presses his fingers into his skin. “This is real? You’re real?”

Zayn smiles again, his eyes crinkling, his thumb running over Harry’s cheek. Harry swears it makes his heart flutter.

“How old are you?” Harry asks, not taking his eyes away from Zayn - not blinking.

“Twenty-four.”

“How-”

“It’s 2003,” Zayn speaks clearly, and the way he keep his eyes centred, holds Harry’s eyes with his own makes Harry look down again.

“How?” Harry echoes, and he doesn’t know why Zayn would know anymore than he does, _how_ he would know, when Zayn says, “No idea and I don’t care.”

Harry lifts his head, asking again.

“I don’t care because you’re here. You’re really here.”

They kiss and feel and touch what they can for as long as they can, alone on the beach with the steady whispers of the waves as their background noise. And Harry doesn’t want to ever move, doesn’t want to ruin the moment like he did last time, when he was happy and had Zayn in his arms to have him disappear again. Harry remembers everything now, the way they laughed when he splashed water at Zayn with his boot last time, how Zayn kept pressing into Harry's side on that rock, wanting to get as close together as possible. And then they forget, the week Harry spent at school, the days that dragged on, months and years Zayn spent waiting for this, right here, all forgotten as their lips move, as Zayn bites at Harry's bottom lip before Harry parts his lips in a silent moan.

Harry could stay on the beach forever, could spend the whole night just holding Zayn close, but when Zayn whispers, “Wanna go inside?” onto his lips, Harry finds himself nodding.

And then it’s like it was before, walking down the beach, hand in hand with Zayn’s shoulders brushing against Harry’s. They stop to kiss every other step as well.

Harry can openly admit that he didn’t really pay attention to how the inside of Zayn’s house looked like the last time he was there. Occupied by more important matters, Harry couldn’t even tell you how to get to Zayn’s bedroom. He didn’t notice the hand prints on the concrete landing of the stairs leading to the house they come to stand on - three pairs, all different in size. So harry stops this time, pays as much attention as he can since Zayn is standing right behind him, tightening his hold around Zayn’s hand.

“Those are mine,” Zayn points to the smallest pair, tiny hands with a neat _Z_ in the middle of one palm. “The big ones are my dad’s and those are my mom’s. Yeser and Trisha.”

Zayn is pressed to Harry’s back as he explains and Harry can’t resist comparing how big Zayn’s hands feel on his hips to how small they look pressed on the ground, how maybe Zayn’s hands were smaller the last time he felt them on his skin. Before Harry can voice his confusion again, Zayn presses a kiss to his cheek and starts leading him to the house.

The inside of the house is furnished not unlike Harry’s, cream colours with bright wood tables and chairs. It’s home-y, a typical shore house with big windows opening to the ocean and the sand. As soon as Zayn lets go of his hand, Harry feels comfortable in the open space. It’s clear that a family lives here, a couch that could easily sit at least six people and photos, framed photos of smiling and happy faces all over the walls.

Harry walks up to the biggest one, a photo of Zayn when he still had long hair swooping around his face, a strand falling into his eyes.

“My dad took most of them, that one too,” Zayn says from somewhere behind Harry. “Was so proud, he put it up. He thinks he’s a pro when it comes to his old camera, but he does get a good photo here and there.”

“It’s great,” Harry says quietly, because that’s the Zayn he remembers. The boy in the photo is the one Harry met on the beach a week ago, the one who managed to blindside him completely. “You’re beautiful.”

“Trying to make me blush?” Zayn comes closer, wraps his arms around Harry’s waist again and Harry thinks it has to be his new favourite thing, as he closes his eyes and leans back.

“How old are you? In the photo.”

“Um, seventeen, eighteen, I think.”

“Where are your parents now?” Harry’s words are slow, laced with feeling Zayn from the back of his neck to where their feet are pressed together.

“Florida,” Zayn chuckles and Harry can feel how it rumbles his chest, but it sounds sad or a little like relief **,** or maybe a mixture of both. “They got tired of the Pacific so they moved to Florida. Like an early retirement I guess.”

Harry begrudgingly turns in Zayn’s arms and raises his eyebrow. “So you live alone?”

Zayn nods and smirks. “All by myself.”

“Well then,” Harry gives Zayn a quick kiss and smirks. “Give me a tour of the house?”

There’s not much to it, living room, dining room and kitchen all in one downstairs, with a small bathroom and an office Zayn says is still just like his dad left it.

“Don’t need an office yet ‘cause I’m still in college.”

“What’s your major?” Harry asks without taking his eyes off of the photos aligned with the stairs.

“English literature with a minor in art.” Zayn opens the first door to the right as they get up the stairs and adds a quick, “Bathroom.”

“You’re artsy, huh?” Harry smiles, his whole body pulsing with a subtle but profound joy as he pictures Zayn’s face smudged with paint and oils.

“I try to be,” Zayn smiles back. “That’s the art room down there, and this,” he opens the door at the end of the hall, “Is my bedroom. I moved in here because the view is better, and the bed’s bigger too.”

“So this is where all the magic happens?” Harry asks shyly, walking inside and not really caring to hear the answer.

“Actually…” Zayn does blush this time. He goes to sit at the edge of the bed and the way he wrangles his hands in his lap is making Harry nervous. “There hasn’t been much magic since four years ago.”

And that’s- Harry doesn’t know how to respond to that. He doesn’t know if he wants to ask why or how first, if he even wants to know, but he does have a sudden urge to cry. Harry ends up asking a shaky, “What?” which really only makes Zayn’s face flame with red and Harry wants to take it back immediately.

Harry can’t wrap his head around it, because he doesn’t know if it was voluntary, but with the edge of Zayn’s jaw and his big brown eyes, Harry can’t imagine Zayn having trouble finding someone. He can’t wrap his head around it, so he goes to sit next to Zayn. Harry takes Zayn’s hands in his own and intertwines their fingers together, thinking about the other Zayn he met on the beach and how really, the same Zayn is right here with him, innocent but dangerous, a mystery Harry thinks he’s falling in love with.

Before Harry has the chance to explain how nobody has ever waited for him like that, has ever cared enough to even think about giving something like time and infinite patience to him, Zayn takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, and Harry knows to wait and see what he has to say first.

“I believe in love, or I want to try to believe. I see it with my parents, how they can’t live without each other, how they would do anything it takes, anything at all because they’re in love, right? And I’m not saying I love you,” Zayn looks up at Harry then, his eyes honest and wide, a plea to wait for him to finish. “But I’m not saying I don’t either. I don’t really get it, if I’m honest, because I barely know you, I’ve seen you less than a handful of times, but I just know? I know that even if I don’t love you yet, I’m probably going to.”

They both smile - Zayn because it’s probably the first time he’s said it out loud, and Harry because it’s the first time someone’s ever said that to him and actually meant it.

“It wasn’t like I made a decision one day, that I’m going to wait, it just, happened. Time went by and before I knew it, I was waiting to see you again.”

“And so it’s been four years?” Harry can’t tear his eyes away from Zayn, how his face is determined yet at the same time unsure and so fragile, Harry wants to hold him close and run his fingers through Zayn’s hair.

“And so it’s been four years,” Zayn nods, and Harry has no idea why they’re smiling, but he likes it, loves the crinkles around Zayn’s eyes and the way his tongue presses to the back of his teeth. He looks younger like this.

“Four years is a long time,” Harry ducks his head and rubs his thumbs over Zayn’s hands.

“It is, yeah.”

“We have a lot to catch up on.”

“I think we should start right away,” Zayn barely says, and the way Harry felt the week drag on to no end, he can’t begin to imagine how long four years can be, how with every day that went by, Zayn was barely a day closer to Harry coming back. Harry can't believe how much time Zayn’s spent just waiting. So Harry doesn't want Zayn to wait another second before he leans in to kiss him.

They don’t have to run up two flights of stairs this time, don’t have to rush and be as wild and desperate as they were four years ago. Harry can take his time, be as careful as he should have been then. He can spend hours upon hours just enjoying the complexion of Zayn’s skin or the way his legs twitch when Harry presses into the right spot. But even if he starts off with a steady rhythm, Harry gets impatient, wants more faster, because as much as he wants to savour it, really pay attention this time and stop to look at every single photo framed on the walls, it’s Zayn, and there’s only so much self-control he has.

Zayn moves to sit on Harry’s lap without disconnecting their lips and Harry wants to immediately take off their clothes, because there’s nothing like being able to kiss and bite and trail curious fingers over smooth planes of skin, but Zayn’s hands stop him, push him back so they can both take a breath.

“Slow, yeah?” Zayn whispers behind Harry’s ear, and as small as the gesture is, it’s enough to make Harry moan and again want to rip their clothes off.

But it wouldn’t be right - not after four years of only having memories and a week of nervous doubts - to rush, to speed and have it pass in heart-swelling but quick minutes, so Harry tangles his fingers in Zayn’s short hair as best as he can, and says, “Slow,” in a soft murmur. Zayn buries his head in Harry's neck and sighs, as simple as that and Harry thinks that's it - this is what love feels like.

Harry's been with his share of people, which isn't to say he gets around as much as some have claimed in the past. A couple of years ago, there was the girl with incredibly kissable lips that Harry still thinks about when he needs some help. And David, who made the most obscene noises, moans and guttural sounds that got Harry off like not much else. Nina had a thing about being on top, made it a point to always roll her hips in these carefully controlled ups and slow downs that made Harry's vision blur as soon as she'd sink down on top of him. But none have been enough for Harry to slow down, for him to pay enough mind and make sure he's doing it right, take his time with every single touch. Harry's never wanted to simply kiss someone as much as he does Zayn, so he thinks it may be in the small things as well. The little things can amount to love if you make sure to pay attention.

As soon as Zayn’s eyes gleam and his hands pull at Harry’s t-shirt again, Harry kisses him, teases at Zayn’s lips with his tongue and just enjoys the feeling of Zayn melting in his hands. Harry thinks he’d wait too if he had to, if he was the one to only get a taste of Zayn every four years, he’d wait. Harry would wait however long if it meant he’d get to have Zayn in his lap like this, moaning and biting at Harry’s neck, rolling his hips down to press them even closer together.

When Harry goes to run his hands underneath Zayn’s t-shirt again, Zayn raises his arms above his head and holds his breath. It’s almost like he’s nervous, and Harry thinks he’d be too if he were Zayn, but he can’t have that. Harry wants Zayn to have to close his eyes and see his thighs shake, make him lose his breath altogether and come completely undone. He wants to give Zayn something to remember for four years, to not forget no matter what.

Harry couldn't stand knowing Zayn's nervous. So once Zayn’s shirt is off, Harry takes his off too, a plan to try and make this an even playing field, a plan to give Zayn everything he possibly can. And as soon as he sees Zayn’s bare chest, Harry thinks he should be the nervous one. There's something about having Zayn in his lap, his shirt off and ready to take off everything else, that has Harry's hands shake.

There are wings drawn underneath Zayn’s collar bones just like in the photo, ruby red lips at the bottom of the tips and words Harry doesn’t know the meaning of all around, that make Harry wonder when Zayn got them, why he chose wings and whose lips he carries on his skin.

“We match,” Zayn says in a quiet hum while he traces Harry’s swallows, eyes on the big butterfly lower on his stomach, before he focuses on the laurels below Harry’s navel. “Why’d you get these?”

Harry’s breath hitches when Zayn trails his finger down his torso in a teasing drawl, curving and bypassing his nipples before he traces the lines of ink above Harry’s jeans. “They were pretty?” Harry still finds the words to say, and it's like Zayn doesn't know what he's doing to him when he lightly traces Harry's skin like that.

“I like them,” Zayn looks so focused, too focused on Harry’s tattoos for what they’re in the middle of, so Harry quickly diverts his attention by flipping them around.

“We’ll exchange tattoo stories after,” Harry practically growls, slotting his legs between Zayn’s and rolling his hips.

He can see how Zayn’s pupils dilate, his lips part and that’s it, that’s all of Harry’s control going out the window. He goes to undo the zipper of Zayn’s jeans and pulls them down his legs, feeling his skin prickle underneath his hands. Before Harry takes off his own pants, he makes sure to kiss Zayn properly again, filthily in a way that almost gets to be too much.

“Do you have stuff?” Harry asks as he stands and sheds the last of his clothes.

He walks over to the night stand Zayn points at and takes the wrapper and bottle out, throws them on the bed and lies down next to Zayn on his side. And then Harry doesn’t know what to do.

Zayn's a bare inch away, hard and already leaking at the tip - and Harry wants nothing more than a taste - but he doesn't want to move either, because Zayn is lying on his back, waiting, his eyes wide. Harry doesn’t want to leave Zayn’s side. There's a passing though that whips by his head, because in the end, he'll have to leave, Harry'll just end up leaving Zayn again.

Thinking about everything he could do to Zayn instead, everything he could do with him while Zayn's on his back, Harry doesn’t want to make Zayn move, but he needs him to, Harry needs this more and more with each second that goes by.

He runs his hand over Zayn’s side and leans in close to him, says, “Hands and knees babe,” before Harry kisses him one more time and moves behind him. He drips lube on his fingers and is quick to spread it around a little on the back of Zayn’s thighs - they look so bite-able, Harry has to settle on the next best thing.

Whispering “Slow,” on to the small of Zayn’s back, Harry pushes the tip of his index in and closes his eyes because of the heat, the tightness he can finally feel again. Harry does go slow, tries to be as gentle as he possibly can, with Zayn moaning every time he crooks his fingers up and pushes, adds another finger and hopes to make it good enough for Zayn to remember.

Zayn’s thighs are trembling when Harry gets to three fingers, but he doesn’t think he’d be able to last any longer with the sounds Zayn’s making anyway, the silent pleas that keep getting stuck in the back of Zayn’s throat.

But they still don’t rush with it, don’t skip any steps, even if Zayn’s starting to sound like he’s in pain, like it's torture for him to stay on his hands and knees like that. And although Harry doesn’t think he’ll be able to give Zayn enough time, to wait while Zayn adjusts to his width, Harry manages to circle his thumbs patiently over Zayn's hips. Peppering kisses over the back of his neck, between Zayn’s shoulder blades and each knot of his spine, Harry gets lost. His hips are pressed close to Zayn, but Harry's thoughts are on the way Zayn breathes slowly, the way he moves his neck to the left when Harry licks a stripe from the side of his back. Harry wants the sounds that escapes Zayn when he sucks a bruise right below his jaw to be the ring-tone of his phone - the silent soundtrack of his life.

Harry almost forgets he's waiting for Zayn to give him an okay, a sign that he trusts Harry to take care of him, but then Zayn's whimpering, “Please,” under his breath and Harry can't move fast enough before he pulls out slowly and pushes into Zayn’s tight heat again.

Sinking his fingers into the soft skin of Zayn's hips, Harry has to close his eyes as he moves his hips in undulated thrusts and feels how Zayn shakes every time he bottoms out.

Zayn's long collapsed onto his front, his arms stretched out before him, grabbing onto anything he can reach, and Harry doubts he's gonna be able to keep this up for much longer. It's a strain to keep moving, keep pushing in and pulling Zayn back, to keep them both up - Harry's so close to plummeting over the edge he can feel the air beneath his feet. But he can't come yet, can't have it be over before Zayn literally can't take anymore and is begging for Harry to go harder, to push faster.

So Harry slides his hand from Zayn's hip to his chest, holding him there and feeling each sharp intake of breath before he moves his hand lower, fingers spread out over Zayn's stomach. Harry spreads his knees out a little further apart and angles his hips lower, thrusts up slow and steady, as he raises Zayn up to have them pressed together, chest to back.

"Harry," Zayn whines, the sound ripped from his lips as his hands snake behind Harry to hold on. "Harry, Harry."

And Harry can feel how Zayn's there too, close to lifting from the bed and flying off with his hands in Harry's hair, half sobbing for Harry to go harder.

With one hand over Zayn's chest to keep him up, Harry grabs Zayn's aching cock with the other, presses his thumb into the slit just as he thrusts up and up and harder and deeper, hitting Zayn's spot every time. Zayn's back arches and Harry tugs, jerks Zayn off while his own hips lose their sure rhythm now that Zayn's louder, now that Zayn is rolling his hips against Harry's.

Harry's there, he's right there next to Zayn and, with another tight tug, Zayn comes as Harry squeezes his eyes shut and flies off with him, trembles and falls off the cliff, collapsing on the bed with Zayn exhausted underneath him.

"Mmm," Zayn hums after they lie there for a couple of minutes, both unable to do more than breathe. "Can you-? Harry, you're-," Zayn wiggles his hips beneath Harry's weight and Harry has to close his eyes again, hold his breath with every bit of energy he has left.

"Shit, yeah," Harry says and moves, actually manages to pull out and stand after what he's just done - after what they've just done. Harry walks out the room and to the door Zayn pointed out as the bathroom, where he ties off the condom, throws it in the trash and sits down on the edge of the tub.

His breathing is still a little shallow and forced, his thighs aching and his abdomen is still tense, but as soon as he drops his head in his hands, Harry grins like a fool. He would jump a couple of times if he could, maybe shout a little or run back to Zayn if he wasn't so tired, so drained and in a desperate need of a shower. So Harry stands up again and is about to go join Zayn back on the bed when Zayn's head pops up around the bathroom's door.

"Hey," Harry's still smiling as he waits, stands there and watches Zayn walk toward him.

"I, um, I came to check if you're still here," Zayn almost whispers as he places his hands on Harry's hips, squeezes the skin there a little.

"I'm here." Harry wants to reassure Zayn, wants to stress that he's not leaving, but even to Harry's ears his words sound weak, a half truth half hope neither of them want to think about. "And since I think I'll be here for a little while longer, I was thinking we could take a shower?"

Zayn smirks and steps closer, raises his hands and wraps them around Harry's neck with an ease Harry hasn't seen from Zayn yet.

They shower wrapped around each other, Zayn's hands protectively around Harry's waist as Harry refuses to give Zayn's lips a break. The water cascades around them, creating their own world where they're together, where it's just them and the air smells like Zayn's shower gel. Harry bites at Zayn's bottom lip when the boy moans in his arms, and Zayn scratches over Harry's back every time Harry's hands stray to rub at Zayn's nipples. They probably stand underneath the shower head for longer than is healthy, longer than can be measured in simple  minutes or seconds. It's like time doesn't exist, like it's a pile of sand that shifts from left to right, unbound by glass or gravity, and Harry and Zayn are in the middle of it all, together, as they're meant to be.

When their skin gets too pruny, they step out into the fog they created and  Harry can't focus on anything besides the curve of Zayn's spine, the dimples at the small of his back or the gun holstered on his hip, as Zayn dries himself off with a towel. So it's not Harry's fault that his hands stray to Zayn's waist again or that he kisses Zayn's shoulder before he spins him around to kiss him properly.

It's short though, because soon Zayn's laughing and he can't follow Harry anymore, so Harry steps away and goes to dry himself off as well - pouting.

"Babe, let me at least put some clothes on."

"What if I don't want you to put on clothes?" Harry whines, and Zayn won't like this side of him, the petulant attention seeker that prefers being naked to any form of clothing - except maybe head scarfs.

But Zayn just secures a towel around his waist and pecks at Harry's lips. "We need to eat something," Zayn says rationally. "And even if I'd prefer to have you naked at all times, cooking without clothes is calling for something to go wrong."

"Okay," Harry agrees half-heartedly, because he's cooked naked before and nothing's ever happened - well, Zayn doesn't need to know how he got the scar on his upper thigh. "But we're eating naked. In bed."

"Fine," Zayn nods his approval and waits for Harry before they both go to put on clothes.

"What're you in the mood for?" Zayn asks him once they’re in the kitchen, Harry sitting on top of the kitchen island while Zayn has his head in the fridge.

"You," Harry says with a smirk. It's not a lie.

"Not helpful," Zayn chuckles. "What else?"

"Um," Harry jumps off the counter and goes to scratch his chin. "Something simple, so we can go back to bed."

"What about eggs?"

"Eggs it is," Harry agrees. He could help Zayn, maybe prepare a quick salad to go with the eggs, but Harry kind of wants to know how Zayn moves around the kitchen, if he's like Harry or more like Louis - who is forbidden to stand too close to a stove.

Instead of actually keeping a close eye on Zayn's hands as Harry hears him chop something to tiny bits, he starts walking around the living room, looking at the photos again. There are a couple of frames standing on a chest of drawers, group photos that Harry may have seen before. It's the gang, Anne's gang, or in this case, Harry guesses it's Zayn's.

"My mom has an album with these," Harry says, but he doesn't try to speak up. "All of these."

"I think we all have those photos somewhere," Zayn says from the kitchen, where he must still be able to see Harry. "I have them scattered all over."

"There are more?" Harry does ask louder this time, but he's lost himself in the photo from a week ago, from four years ago when his boots were completely soaked through. Harry saw this exact photo a week ago, when Zayn was just a reoccurring face in Anne's photos instead of standing a few feet away, making them scrambled eggs from what Harry can hear.

"A couple yeah, but the bigger ones are there."

It's two group photos of the gang standing in a semi-neat line on the beach, Zayn a mere shadow in both and Harry thinks that isn't fair. Zayn should be in the centre, a foot in front of everyone with a headlight pointed at him at all times, but Harry can make due with what he has, what he gets to have.

"What's your middle name?" Harry thinks of it when he turns and his eyes land on the big portrait of Zayn again, the one Harry wouldn't mind hanging in his bedroom - the first he’d see every morning.

"Javadd. What's yours?"

“Edward,” Harry shrugs and turns back to Zayn, who’s moving from one end of the kitchen to the other, grabbing utensils and plates while shuffling eggs on the sizzling pan with an elegant ease. “You can cook.”

But it’s not a question, because Zayn clearly knows his way around a hot stove - he hasn’t burnt himself once, which Harry thinks is quite admirable.

“My mom’s a cook,” Zayn starts explaining off-handedly as he’s piling their plates with fresh cubes of tomatoes. “She worked at a small restaurant here and I usually went there after school, so I picked up on a couple of things.”

“It smells amazing,” Harry walks closer with his nose in the air, because it really is mouthwatering and he’s starving by now. “We’re still eating in bed.”

“I know, I know,” Zayn laughs through his words and shakes his head. Turning everything off and putting the pan in the sink to let it soak, Zayn points to a plate and says, “But you’re carrying your own food,” as he takes his own and starts walking off with a smirk Harry would love to lick off his face.

As soon as they’re nice and full, hazy and sated for the time being, Harry slips out of the sweats Zayn so kindly lent him with Zayn pointedly rolling his eyes as he puts both of their plates on the floor. It’s not that Harry has a personal vendetta against wearing clothes, but there’s not a feeling in the world that could rival lying in bed naked, the sheets messily twisted around Harry’s legs. There’s just a level of comfort Harry has coursing right above his skin when he’s like this, slightly tired but wide awake, spread out yet pressing his head closer to Zayn’s lap.

“You’re something else, you know that?” Zayn says in a tone Harry has never had directed towards him, so it leaves him puzzled, eyebrows furrowed.

“Is that a good thing?” he asks cautiously, looking up at Zayn.

“The best,” Zayn smiles and leans down, kisses Harry slow and sweet, bites at his lips a little before he straightens up again. “I can’t even- You’re- You’re really here.”

It hasn’t sunk in for Harry either - it probably never will - and it’s barely been a day since he’s gotten Zayn back. It’s barely been any time at all that Harry’s been back. And he can’t, Harry doesn't know how long he’s got, hot long they have this time around. Harry had to close his eyes as he remembers the last time, the beach and how he had Zayn for what? Five, six hours at most? Harry can’t, he can’t-, there’s not enough air.

Harry jolts upright, gasping for air, desperate to get a gulp of oxygen as stars dance in front of his eyes. suddenly, he’s too naked, too exposed and completely defenseless in the middle of Zayn’s too big bed. Suddenly, it’s too much and Harry can’t do it, can’t wrap his head around any of it, around what’s happening - what’s going to inevitably happen. But then his eyes focus, the stars are dissipating to small sparks of light and Harry can breathe. Now there’s so much air, he can feel it on his skin.

Zayn has him wrapped in his arms, clutching to Harry in what should be a painful embrace, his arms around Harry’s middle as he kisses over his curls repeatedly, murmuring soft words of “It’s okay,” and “Just breathe.”

Harry sighs heavily and rests his hand against Zayn’s solid chest, feeling how Zayn takes every single breath, the exhale slow and patient, the steady thump of his heartbeat.

“Tell me something about yourself,” Harry whispers, closes his eyes as his breathing slowly evens out.

“What do you wanna know?”

“Anything.” _Tell me everything_ , Harry thinks, wants to ask _What’s your favourite song?, What’s the one thing you can’t live without? Tell me why you think you could love me?_

Zayn hums and Harry tries to imprint the gentleness of Zayn’s hand to his memory, Zayn’s fingers tracing patterns on Harry’s skin as he thinks of something to say.

“My parents almost split up when I was eighteen,” Zayn starts, and Harry settles in, follows the waves of Zayn’s voice, the hand still on Harry’s lower back. “They had me when they were really young, but my mom always said they planned it, that they wanted a big family so they were happy when she got pregnant. But as the years went by, it was like it was never the right time to have another kid. They had to think about money, about what they wanted to do and my mom didn’t want to stop working.”

Harry’s entranced, encompassed by Zayn’s words to the point he almost whines when Zayn pauses. He looks up then, want to ask “And?” in his best impatient tone, as the word glues to the back of his throat when he sees Zayn’s face - his eyes red, rimmed with wetness Harry wants to kiss away along with the everything Zayn’s just said, if only to make Zayn forget. Harry wants to hold Zayn, so he does, feels like he has to run his thumb underneath Zayn’s eye and kiss the corner of his mouth.

“She got pregnant again,” Zayn is able to rasp out after Harry has kissed him twenty, thirty times. “She got pregnant again, but it-.  It wasn’t the right time, wasn’t meant to be.”

And then, as a tear leaves its trace on Zayn’s cheek, Harry’s stomach sinks and there’s no more air again. Harry scoots closer to Zayn, gets between his legs and grabs hold of Zayn’s neck as he hugs him, squeezes tight, brings them as close together as Harry can.

If there’s something about hugging your mother  holding her close, Harry can’t begin to describe or to explain what his heart is doing as he feels Zayn’s back shake, his breaths ragged and shallow on Harry’s neck.

“It broke them, you know?” Zayn whispers, as he buries his head underneath Harry’s chin, sounding broken and beaten down, done and almost over it. “It broke all of us. They started fighting, avoiding each each other when they weren’t shouting. They forgot I was there for a while.”

“Zayn…” Harry murmurs because he doesn’t believe for a second they forgot him - Harry can’t believe anyone could forget about Zayn.

But Zayn just shakes his head and sniffles quickly. “No, they did. I didn’t get it then, I didn’t know how they could forget about their son, about their _only_ son, but now I do. It was just- It was hard, yeah? But it got better once they decided to move and take some time away from it all. Even me.”

Harry has been so focused on Zayn’s words, on the way his mouth shaped around long vowels and his eyelids dipped every time he blinked, he doesn’t notice that Zayn has stopped speaking until he feels Zayn’s lips on his own.

It’s slow again, their lips dragging and curving around the other’s as they sigh and hum, run their hands and trace their fingers in slow drawls over hot skin. It gets quiet again, only the sounds of their slick mouths echoing from wall to wall, their breathing a quiet thrum and Harry doesn’t think for once, doesn’t wonder how it would be to have this every day, every morning when he wakes up until it lulls him back to sleep, because he _knows_ that this is it. This is what Anne can’t let go of.

“Didn’t do the best job making you feel better, did I?” Zayn laughs self-deprecatingly as he breaks them apart, gives them a moment to catch their breaths.

Harry lightly shoves at his shoulder, but smiles, because no, Harry feels even shittier now than he did before, yet knowing that people have gone through the worst things possible in their lives, things Harry isn’t sure he could survive, makes him believe time isn’t that big of an obstacle.

“What is the one thing you can’t live without?” Harry hears himself ask after they lay tangled in bed for what has to be hours, Harry’s leg thrown over Zayn’s as Zayn’s fingers get lost in his curls.

Zayn chuckles quietly and presses his lips to Harry’s temple. “Would it be too cheesy if I say you?”


	3. 2007

“Why won’t you tell us his name?” Louis asks for what must be a thousandth time. It’s really only three of four - however Harry has sighed so many times in the last half hour or so that it feels like a thousand times.

“Because his name is not important.”

“Um, yes it is,” Niall jumps in. “We might know the guy.”

“And right there is the second reason _I’m not telling you his name_.”

“But it’s us,” Louis is quick to counter. “Who are you going to tell if not me and Niall here?”

“No one,” Harry says between his teeth, because this is not what he was aiming for when he said he met up with ‘that guy’ again. “I’m not telling anyone, because it doesn’t matter.”

Louis scoffs, seemingly giving up, so Harry can finally lean back on the couch and close his eyes.

"Harry?" It's Niall this time, but Harry can't bite his tongue fast enough before he's growling an angry "What?" with his eyes still closed.

"Um, you didn't actually tell us anything?"

"What? Oh, yeah. Right."

It's been another week of handing in assignments Harry didn't feel like writing, a week of Professor Lansing reminding Harry that he needs to pick a partner for the project due in less than a month. And it's not even Harry's fault that he can't focus on school work, especially a project titled _Family Values_.

Nina more than happily agreed to partnering up with Harry when he called her on Monday morning, but her enthusiastic attitude did nothing to put Harry at ease - or make him think he won't regret just picking someone at random. Harry's met Nina's family when they dated for those however many months and granted, since the whole point of this project is to compare different families and see if it all adds up to the same numbers so to speak, pairing up with Nina might just work.

Nina has three brothers - two older and one younger - to Harry's one older sister, her parents have been together for almost 30 years while Anne's been married, divorced and remarried. Harry thinks he won't mention Des and his coming and going girlfriends. Nina's parents are one of those smiley polo-shirt-wearing golf-club-going people Harry can't relate to. Her mother bakes pies and her dad has some kind of a small business that must be doing quite well if Nina's attitude and how her whole family carries themselves is any indication. And Harry's family is simple, Anne inherited the house from her parents, Gemma got her job because of her grades, not nepotism and even if Robin has more money than they'll ever need, Harry doesn't think it shows.

And then there's the fact that Harry actually gets along with his mom. Anne has always been his harbour, the anchor pulling him into the dock when Harry felt lost, wandering towards the open sea. More often than not they don't agree on matters, but that's how it is with mothers and sons, especially if that mother chose to divorce said son's father for reasons her son is too blind to see, to stupid to understand. Harry loves his mom and Nina doesn't like her parents all that much, always said they limit her potential when they were lying in Harry's bed late at night. However much Harry doesn't want to actually do this project, it might not be all that bad in the end.  
Harry takes two deep centering breaths before he opens his eyes again. It's been a hectic week and the weather's starting to slowly resemble the beginning of Spring which doesn't do all that much to help Harry stay behind his books. But then again, it wasn't the weather or the essays, the books he had to read or the classes Harry almost slept through that were always on his mind, itching his skin and punching against the back of his head. It was the golden honey coloured rays of sunshine every evening, the couples passing him on every corner, walking hand in hand and sharing kisses Harry felt on his cheek too, the tiny caress of lips on soft skin, on stubble that prickled Harry's fingers every time he ran his thumb over Zayn's cheek. It's not family values that have been on Harry's mind, but the single tear that felt like a jab to his heart.

"What do you want to know?" he asks, now feeling exhausted, everything catching up with him.  
"Besides his name?" Louis says and it's only because of stupid karma that Harry doesn't flick him right in the middle of his face. "I don't know. What's he like?"

 _Like a dream,_ Harry wants to say, _like everything I didn’t know I wanted._ But he settles on a simple, “perfect,” because it sums Zayn up quite nicely. Harry’s been known to exaggerate, sprinkling details freely on his extensive anecdotes he loves to tell, but he really only does it to add flare, to spruce his life a little, his memories. Harry isn’t sprucing Zayn up though, isn’t presenting him with rainbow sprinkles on top. And as both Louis and Niall raise their eyebrows in confusion and possibly disbelief, Harry doesn’t rush to explain or corroborate himself.

“How about we start with age, job or major, fucking hair colour, before you get ahead of yourself?”

Louis says, sharp and serious, but Harry doesn’t blame him. He’d be weary too if Louis met someone and described them as anything close to being perfect.

“He’s um, older than me, a teacher and he has dark hair, which used to be kind of long, like down to his shoulders, but he shaved it all off, so now it’s all short and spiky. I liked it better before and I told him as much,” Harry waves his hands as he continues. “But I can’t convince him to grow it out again.”

When Harry looks at Louis and Niall, expectant to hear more of their questions, they just stare at him blankly, like he’s grown at least an extra head as he’s talked.

Louis is quick to clear his throat though. “Older, huh?”

“Yeah, but not by much,” Harry shrugs, even if he feels the lie heavy on his tongue.

“Is he married?” Niall pipes up, sounding more worried than anything else. “Is that why you won’t tell us his name?”

“Of course he isn’t married.” And it isn’t a lie, not even a small white one, because Harry technically doesn’t know - but he is pretty sure. The Zayn he’s met, the one he’s falling in love with isn’t married. Wasn’t. But then, as much as Harry wishes or feels somewhere deeps down in the pit of his gut, he has no idea where Zayn is now, today, in the present. It’s not something Harry much likes to think about - at all - during his now, his todays. Harry’d rather focus on then, on whenever he gets to have Zayn. When he _got_ to have Zayn.

“Then why won’t you tell us who he is?”

“Because I don’t want you two stalking him,” Harry says rationally, as he stands and starts walking to the kitchen, suddenly parched.

“What makes you think we’d care?” Louis asks, knowing full well how nosey he can get.

“I’ve only known you my whole life,” Harry says, explaining enough in so many words.

He downs a whole glass of cold water before he pours another and carries it back to where Niall and Louis are sprawled on the couch.

“You’d like him,” Harry nods towards Louis, because they _have_ known each other since grade school.

“You think?”

Harry hums as he sits back down. “Last night he was telling me how he could never decide if his favourite movie was _Batman_ or _Hulk_.”

“Which _Batman_?”

“I don’t know?”

“Why Hulk?”

“He’s obsessed. Something about the power to be human. I think.” But Harry’s not that sure. He didn’t follow, or _couldn’t_ follow really, when Zayn began rambling about comic books and _DC_ , _Marvel_ and more names Harry can’t even try to remember. It was after they’d been lying in bed and just enjoying the plains of each other skin, while Harry composed odes to every single one of Zayn’s eyelashes and Zayn kept tangling his fingers in Harry's curls.

Zayn had asked Harry what his favourite book was and Harry fumbled to think of a single title, like he hasn’t read a page in his life. Harry flushed from his cheeks to his chest and he couldn’t do much more than cover his face with the closest pillow and refuse to look at Zayn, not wanting to deal with his completely deserved shame.

“Aw, babe. It’s okay if you’re not big on reading.”

“I am!” Harry whined into the stuffy plushness. “I mean I’m not, but I do read. I promise.”

Zayn kissed the arm Harry held the pillow with and softly said, “Okay then. Take a second and think of a book. It doesn’t have to be anything fancy, just one you liked," as if it wasn't the most embarrassing thing in the world. Zayn's major is English literature, literature Harry has read, literature that sits on the massive bookshelf in Anne's living room. Harry's eyes have passed over the spines of those books too many times to count, some of the old battered covers have been on his bedroom floor. And most of them he's actually read, because Harry thought he'd have a different view on life if he read books, that he'd be smarter somehow if he knew the plot of _Jane Eyre_ by heart. It took Harry a while to realize that just by simply reading that the heart always wins when it comes to love, that even if the greatest of loves can be completely accidental, it didn't necessarily mean he'd be able to tell love apart from the common _like_.

Zayn kissed his way to Harry’s shoulder, as Harry failed to think of a book, any book that was published before 2003, as he felt Zayn’s tongue on his hot skin once and again, his lips dragging along his skin wetly.

“Mmm,” Harry whined again, petulant. “I can’t think with you doing that.”

But then Zayn stopped and moved away from Harry, which wasn’t what Harry wanted at all. “No, don’t stop.” Harry sat up and threw himself towards Zayn, wanting to make the most of every second they got. “I’ll just think harder.”

“What about in school?” Zayn mumbled with his mouth still pressed to Harry’s neck, his hands steady in their place on Harry’s hips. “What did you read in school?”

“I don’t know? I liked _The Catcher in the Rye._ ” Harry was done for, his brain completely focused on Zayn instead of literature he would be able to list easily under different circumstances.

Zayn smirked. “You had to pick the most depressing book ever written?”

“Zayn,” Harry whined, pouting like only he knows how.

“I’m sorry, you’re right. It’s a classic. What about a favourite movie?”

And Harry knew Zayn was teasing him, wanting to see if Harry would be able to answer with the way his hands were moving closer to his stomach, his thumbs pressing into the skin just below Harry’s navel. Harry lost once, but he wasn’t going to just wave a white flaw in front of Zayn’s face that easily.

Harry took a centering breath and tried his hardest to focus, to stay calm and to make words come out of his mouth. “ _The Notebook._ ”

“Haven’t seen it,” Zayn shrugged. “The book is okay-ish.”

“You didn’t like it did you?”

“Not really no,” Zayn blushed, but it was so minuscule, the warm shade colouring just the top of his cheekbones that Harry had to smile for noticing it. Harry felt a sense of pride and accomplishment, because the smallest of things can matter the most.

“You should see the movie.”

“I will.” Zayn nodded.

“Next year,” Harry whispered quietly, hopeful and a little desperate, keeping his mind on those beautiful butterflies dancing in the air somewhere.

Harry kissed Zayn once, twice, quick pecks to give him a chance to refocus and move away from the subject, some room to move a little, get his legs around Zayn’s. “What about you?”

“Can’t decide. It’s either _Batman_ , because _Batman_ is awesome,” Zayn said as he mindlessly helped Harry move, unaware of his evil plan to make Zayn completely forget about the existence of anything besides Harry's lips. “Or _Hulk,_ because he has the best superpower, being able to turn into a human being. I think people forget that just because he looks menacing, it doesn't mean he's not a big softy at heart. Both are at the top of my list.”

“So what you’re saying,” Harry put all of his weight onto his arms, pushing Zayn to lay back down on the bed beneath him. “Is that you’re a complete nerd.”

“Your nerd,” Zayn giggled, literally giggled in a high pitched tone with his nose scrunching up, his eyes almost sparkling. Harry was in awe.

“Isn’t that a little too cheesy?”

“Better get used to it.”

And it’s really how it went, playing a twisted game of twenty questions in more than seven minutes of heaven, both laughing at their horrible questions and even worse answers through sloppy kisses and slow hand-jobs, as the sun began to rise, warm rays shining on picture frame after picture frame in Zayn’s bedroom. If Harry could tell, if he _wanted_ to share that with Louis and Niall, they’d know why _perfect_ is the word he chose.

“He sounds cool,” Louis says and successfully brings Harry out of his memories. He looses a couple of ‘friend points’ for it.

“Does he play an instrument? Is he into music?” Niall asks all the important questions.

“I don’t think so no. He’s more the bookish type,” Harry says with his voice steadily raising, because he isn’t sure if Zayn’s ‘into music’ or not. They haven’t had the time to exchange full CVs quite yet.

Niall shrugs, says, “So he isn’t that cool,” and with it, the subject’s closed. Not that Harry minds.

He can’t tell them Zayn’s name or where he lives, how his house is right there on the beach that Louis’ hangs out on every day without a fault. And Harry can’t tell them about Zayn’s tattoos, what each one tastes like, how Zayn makes these little half silent grunts right before he comes or how he’s got a picture of them kissing on his night-stand. The photo taken right before Harry went back that first night, of them struggling to hold on to each other, lips pressed together in a bad attempt to hide their smiles, sits right there for Zayn to see every morning when he wakes up and every night before he closes his eyes. On the night stand that should be Harry’s.

 

Every Sunday morning, when Harry’s shoulder bag is stuffed with a change of clothing and his phone charger, Harry sends a quick text to Anne, a simple “On my way,” that she knows means he isn’t actually in the car yet, but is going to be as soon as he circles the apartment once more and checks to see if the stove is really off. It’s a constant in Harry’s life, a recurrence he doesn’t want to lose anytime soon. Opening his bedroom door to air it out during the night, a way for the energy to flow freely after another busy week, Harry wonders what his Sundays will look like in twenty, thirty years, if he’ll still take time to go home - if that house on the beach will still be his home.

Maybe in twenty years time, Harry will have his own home with his own kids, a chubby dog named Toby and pictures of 'how it used to be' in his living room. Maybe in thirty years, Harry will be able to curl on the couch with a blanket over his legs as someone's toes are buried underneath his thighs and the knowledge of being home with who he belongs with will be enough to keep him warm during the night. Harry thinks he wouldn't mind sharing his king size bed or having someone's toothbrush touch his own, someone to watch his romantic comedies with and laugh at his stupid jokes. Not if that someone was Zayn. Harry wouldn't mind at all.

Harry will always relish the way the sun illuminates the tops of trees on his Sunday drives, the bright, clean white light that's always there like his lighthouse - the crumbles showing him the way. The empty pavements and the few cars that pass him are a normalcy that make his heart settle and his breaths come easier, because it's there, every Sunday it's all there waiting for Harry to drive by and enjoy, feast his eyes on. Some things are a constant, remain evergreen - _just are_ \- and you can count on them, like you can count on November rain.

Harry will always roll down his window when he drives home, no matter his mood, the month or the weather. His shoulder might ache the next day or he might get a slight cold, coughing more frequently than usual, but even listening to Anne’s scolding is worth the damp clothes and chilled skin. Because Harry wants to feel the air, he wants to know he isn’t alone and that there’s more to life than being stuck in a car every Sunday and Monday morning. There has to be more than just ascending and descending numbers rolling in his bank account.

What becomes a constant, a _just is_ that Harry doesn’t have the courage to dissect and despond over is his eyes searching those empty pavements and few cars that drive past him in a blur. Two weeks ago, every solid object that Harry drove past on Sundays was a vestige and nothing more, a simple solid object. Now, with the air crisper than the week before, Harry wonders if the red light that makes him stop and wait for two minutes is the same place Zayn may have stopped at, once. This exact spot is where Zayn could have waited for two minutes as well, looking out his window to see if he’ll be able to spot Harry anywhere maybe - hopefully. The possibility of Zayn being here yesterday, of Zayn strutting down one of those pavements to walk the dog he had said he wanted is making Harry’s skin crawl with something akin to pain. All of a sudden, there isn’t enough time to ponder all the possibilities, all the places Harry could run into him if he knew even approximately what Zayn is like now - _where_ he is now. Unsettling as the thought is for Harry and no matter how much he just wants to skip until he’s dreaming again, Zayn becomes an nonfluctuating part of Harry’s every day. Zayn becomes a seemingly never-ending search for the trophy Harry doesn’t really need.

With no rush and enough time to catch Anne up with everything that’s happened over the week - and some details left unsaid - Harry drops on the sand coloured couch next to Robin, immediately feeling better once he’s inside his home. The drive isn’t as exhausting as Harry sometimes likes to complain it is, but Harry’s still tired, feels his legs drag on the floor when he has to move to the patio for lunch. As he sits down and smiles at Anne’s simple vegetable lasagna, Harry doesn’t pay attention to the idle conversation Anne and Robin try to direct towards him - Harry _can’t_ pay attention.

Harry hasn’t been able to focus during classes, didn’t know what Nina kept talking about during their lunches that were meant to be spent figuring their project out and he barely got any sleep at night. He kept blaming the weather - that hasn’t changed in almost a month -, the energy not being up to par - whatever that even meant -, and as a last resort, Harry called Louis to kindly invite him for a guys night out. As a last chance for a distraction, Niall, Louis and him ended up spending the night talking about Harry’s mystery man, with the “Are you sure you’re not making this whole thing up?” that Louis said and almost made Harry cry. Harry blamed the wine and they quickly moved on to the hot surfing chick that’s apparently moved into town.

Harry’s mood is as it’s been for the past seven days: bored and slightly thrilled. He’s been waiting for today, the same feeling he used to get before road-trips when he was still in grade school, unable to sleep and too expectant of what’s going to happen, what he’s going to see. But the bored part, the part of Harry that’s too enthralled to be bothered by anything else but tonight is his own fault. Instead of swallowing what he cannot change and just waiting patiently for the mere seven short days to pass, Harry’s twisted his mind into thinking nothing else is worth his time.

He can’t blame anyone but himself for it, especially not Anne and Robin who only get to see him for one day and always make an effort, cook lunch and shower him with attention. Now, Harry’s feeling  disgraceful as well.

“How was your week, honey?” Anne asks, and Harry wants to punch himself for not listening to her. He always wants to listen to Anne’s stories, whether about today or from twenty years ago.

“Um.” There’s not much he can tell them, because not much has actually happened. “Good. I’m working on a project with Nina? We had a slow start, but we should be done on time.”

“Oh, what’s the project about?” Robin says this time, and both him and Anne look too interested, too captivated by Harry’s slow words for him to feel any less bad about wanting to go to bed as soon as possible.

“Families. We’re supposed to compare and contrast. Write a paper on how different family backgrounds amount to the same personal values.” Harry hears his words, knows they string to grammatically correct sentences, but he can’t get past the tone of his own voice, because as much as he feels bored, he sounds it as well.

“You’re gonna do fine,” Anne says with a steady motherly confidence Harry knows he doesn’t deserve, but it does make him feel better.

“I know, it’s just,” he trails off, because maybe he doesn’t want to talk about this right now. But maybe he does. “It’s hard talking about our family and Nina gets it, so she doesn’t push,” Harry shrugs dismissively, but he keeps his eyes on his plate, feels too exposed to look up at Anne. “I don’t want to keep thinking about it.”

Harry knows that Anne’s stopped eating, that the food on her plate has a one way ticket to the trash now, because this is the one thing, the only thing that they never talk about. Harry can hear how Robin chews his pasta - the man always has been a nervous eater - and it’s the only sound besides the waves in the distance that Harry can make out. All until Anne sighs heavily and sits back in her chair, grabs a hold of the arm rests and smiles tightly.

“Well, I’m sure you’re gonna do fine,” she repeats herself, and Harry almost calls her out for it, for always veering away from openly talking about how much Harry didn’t need a new bike or an extra pancake in the morning to distract him from what was going on, because it never really worked.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees though, smiles back and sticks his fork into a juicy piece of zucchini.

It doesn’t take long for Robin to start rehashing something that happened at work that Harry’s already heard at least three times, but he still laughs at the punchline and asks a following question of “So what did Mark do?”

Anne sits quietly for a while and just listens, or Harry wonders if she’s pretending to listen while she thinks, while her mind is going a hundred miles per hour in a completely different direction from Robin - the direction she divorced more than ten years ago. Harry knows it’s his fault, that if he kept his mouth shut and explained what the project was about without bringing up the set backs he only has one person to blame for, Anne would be smiling now, would have her hand on Robin’s shoulder, a loving look in her eyes instead of something distant and sad.

“Did Gemma call?” Harry asks once Robin quiets down too, the silence too much for his own foul mood. And it works, Anne’s happy to talk about her eldest child like she’s talking about a saint, nothing but praises and good things to be heard. Gemma’s always known how to pull attention to herself - a Styles’ family talent.

The sun has set a while back when they finally shuffle the empty plates inside, talked out and all good again, as if Harry didn’t try to bring his family into his own funk. All forgotten, Harry helps to clear the plates for Anne to then place in some specific order into the dishwasher while Robin is half-way to snoring already. There’s not much else to do, besides lock the front and back doors and water the one too many plants Anne has around the house, but it doesn’t take Harry too long to take care of everything before he’s lying on the couch next to Anne, his pillow propped on her thigh.

"If you need anything," is how Anne starts after they've been quiet for a while, enough time for Harry to realize they're watching a rerun of _CSI_ , the one with the creepy doll lady that gave him serious nightmares when he first saw it. "For your project I mean, you can ask me. I'll tell you anything you need to know."

And that's- , it's the first time Anne has freely offered Des as a topic for their conversation in more than ten years. After the whole Stephanie debacle, Anne sat down with Harry and tried her best to explain what a boy and a girl kissing each other’s cheeks meant, how Des and Anne kiss the other’s cheeks and it’s the reason why they have Harry and Gemma - which only made Harry swear that he won’t ever do it again, because he didn’t want his own Harry and Gemma. By the time he was thirteen, and Harry had his first real girlfriend, Sarah from down the street, Anne took Harry out to lunch. She wanted to talk about ‘the birds and the bees’ business - and Harry never completely understood that analogy. What Harry did understand - crystal clear - when he turned seventeen, was that although Stephanie and Sarah were both beautiful, he was more attracted to the rugged, handsome type. That’s when Harry took Anne to lunch and blushingly said that if he’s the bird, than he wants to be with a bird too. Anne didn’t get his analogy either.

It might be a little too codependent and Harry did get called a mama’s boy all throughout those four dreadful years of high school, but the relationship him and Anne have is something Harry’s always needed, even if he and Gemma have always been close too. It’s his safety, his _just is_ constant that he knows will still be there in thirty years. So Harry never did get why Anne down right refuses to talk about the divorce. It’s like she has no problem reminiscing about the old days, when it was fun and wild, when they had love and nothing to worry about, but as soon as the heart-break and abandonment come up, she closes up, locks up and throws away the key.

Harry has no idea why she would volunteer to talk about it now, even after she made it clear how she felt just hours ago. Harry doesn’t know what to ask, he doesn’t know if he even wants to ask anything now that he can. Maybe that’s it, reverse psychology 101 and Anne hopes that now that the doors are open, Harry won’t want to walk in.

“Do you still love dad?” Harry asks instead, not because he wants to be mean or hurt Anne, but because he’s always wondered if love really is forever or if it’s like a candle - burning until there’s no string left, a mess of melted wax left in your hands the only proof there was even a candle in the first place.

Anne doesn’t recoil like Harry thought she would, just shrugs and starts twisting her fingers in his curls as she says a quiet, “Of course I do.”

And that’s the worst thing, probably, because Harry doesn’t know how someone could throw away love like that, abandon and _destroy_ something that’s of value not only to them, but the people close to them - their children, for instance.

“Then why?”

“Because love wasn't enough,” Anne says kindly. “Because marriage is hard work and compromise, and when it gets too hard, when all you _do_ is compromise, love can’t make up for it.”

It’s as close to an explanation as Harry’s ever gotten, but somehow it’s not good enough, because, “You work harder. How could you not work harder? How can you just let something like that go?”

“Sweetie,” Anne hums and scratches Harry behind his ear, because he’s getting too worked up, because it means too much to him. Harry’s on the verge of begging his mom to try again, to give Des another try, because he’s sure they could make it this time, could survive staying together. Anne says, “Harry,” again to make him listen, because his head is turned up, his eyes on Anne, but he isn’t focused on her. “Marriage takes two and I don’t want to speak badly of your dad, but Des was never the marrying type. When it comes down to it, getting divorced was a good thing.”

 _There it is,_ Harry thinks bitterly, _that’s the truth._ It’s not that they fell out of love or that they argued every day and night, and could no longer stand to look at each other. Anne still loves Des and maybe they could actually make it work again, make it better than it was before, but they won’t, because Harry’s parents _wanted_ to get divorced. They wanted to separate and live their lives apart, for themselves and away from each other. The way Harry sees it, is that just how some people go on a search for love, fight to stay together and want, _desperately_ , to share every part of who they are with another person that makes them whole - would wait however long it took -, his parents wanted the complete opposite. Knowing all this doesn’t help to ease Harry’s mind. It doesn’t help at all.

But Harry can be the better person, he can see where Anne is coming from and knows what she means when she says the divorce was a good thing. Harry can try. So he mumbles a quiet, “I love you mom,” before she leans down to kiss his forehead, just like she used after reading him a good night story.

“Love you too.”

They settle into watching the TV, Harry's head still in Anne's lap. Catching up to what they've missed while talking is pointless, but Harry has a feeling neither of them are focused on the colourfully bright display of their flat-screen anyway. He can hear Anne thinking, knows that her deep sigh was unconscious and that she won't let the subject of Des go for a couple of days. It wasn't Harry's intent, to bring back the stinging memory of moving all those boxes back to the beach house, the nights Anne had to spent hushing Gemma back to sleep when she woke up crying. Harry might have been coddled and cooed at, spoiled to the point that it's set deep into who he is today, but he's never been blind – or stupid. He wasn’t spoiled enough.

When Harry was showing off his electric blue bike to Louis, he wasn't too busy to notice how Anne was spending an awful lot of time on the back patio hiding the cigarettes in her hand, and if Harry didn't know what it all meant then – suddenly smoking and sitting alone out back, on what should have been the night's they had a big dinner, all of them together around a table like a typical family – Harry knows what it means now. The best he can do to explain it, is that you don't cry if you're not heart-broken, and you're not heart-broken if you weren't in love to begin with. If you won’t always be in love, even just a little bit.

Harry knows that Anne still loves Des, and that she always will. He knew before she said it aloud for the first time – admitted to it – but Harry needed to hear it, to be one hundred percent sure in the fact that love isn't just a candle – there until it isn't – because he needs to know it isn't just a passing thing, a fleeting feeling that comes and goes with people around you, like a quick changing of winds. Now that Harry knows, now that someone he trusts confirmed it, he can't open his mouth fast enough, the words crashing out of him.

“Mom, remember how you showed me the picture of that bonfire?”

“Hmm?”

“You were all paired up except for that one guy?” Harry asks and hopes that she won't read anything into it.

“You mean Zayn?” Anne says, and there's something in her voice, something besides tiredness and calm, but Harry doesn't dare look up to find out what.

“Yeah.”

“That boy could always charm everyone,” she laughs and Harry immediately relaxes for a second, until he thinks how easy it would be for Zayn to actually charm someone. He doesn't have dimples or curly hair to work with, and Zayn isn't the face of subtle charm that Harry has perfected over the years, but he is the embodiment of awe, of chiseled jawlines and dangerously sharp cheekbones. Zayn could make anyone swoon with his eyes. It’s how he got Harry.

“He's cute,” Harry plays completely coy, as he feels himself blush.

“You think so?” Anne's tone is too reserved, too sceptical for Harry to let it pass without an outraged, “You don't?”

“Wasn't my type,” Anne justifies, as Harry can feel her shrug. “Too broody.”

Harry thinks that Zayn is the perfect amount of broody, thank you very much. It's killing him though, staying quiet and not telling Anne how sweet Zayn can get once he's comfortable – and possibly naked - how soft Zayn gets once you cover his chest with kisses, or how strong his arms feel when he wraps them around Harry’s waist. Harry wants to tell her so badly, he bites his knuckles to keep his mouth occupied and hopes Anne will say something else – anything else.

“He had something to brood about though,” she adds as an after-thought, and Harry can't help but latch on and ask.

“What do you mean?”

Anne puts her hand in Harry's curls again, but doesn't say anything for a long minute, like she needs to sort out her thoughts before she's able to start with a disheartening, “His parents left him when he was 21.”

Harry knew that, he knows Zayn's parents moved to Florida, but he didn't think it was anything more than a welcomed and embraced change in Zayn's life. Something Zayn was happy about. But now that Anne’s said it, now that Harry isn’t focused on the way Zayn’s eyes glisten with unshed tears, he can’t imagine what it would feel like if Anne moved away. Not only would Harry’s Sundays be spent in bed - most likely crying - but his harbour, the rope pulling him into a safe dock would sink to the bottom of the ocean. Harry doesn’t think he would be able to handle losing someone like that again.

Harry is tempted to ask why, to see if Anne knows why Zayn’s parents moved away, but if Anne does know and if Harry has to hear what happened again, he’ll crumble and tell Anne everything. So instead of putting himself - and Anne - through that, Harry turns his head to look up at Anne and asks a shy, “Tell me something about him?”

Anne smiles, of course she does, because she’s the best person in Harry’s life, but she’s also the meanest, because as soon as she sees that he’s blushing, she starts laughing.

“Mom,” Harry whines with a pout. “Stop.”

“I’m stopping,” she says, still laughing, but it’s subsiding, and it’s enough to make Harry feel less like a ten years old. “I’m sorry, I just never thought you’d be interested in someone like Zayn.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugs, just smiling now. Harry can see she’s tired, but this is their time, the time Harry can spend with his mother that he doesn’t see all week and there’s no way Anne would cut the time she can spend with her only son. “You’re nothing alike.”

“So you still talk to him?” Harry’s heart stops beating, because this could be it, this could be the end of his dreams for something much better and more real. A present Zayn, the one in the now that Anne could help Harry find.

“Not really no. He moved away sometime ago.”

“So how do you know we’re nothing alike?”

“Because in the years I’ve known Zayn, he hasn’t changed. He’s always been stubborn and he keeps more to himself. Always has,” she says with that look again, like she’s looking through an open window into how it used to be. “And you know how you can get, honey,” she adds with another small laugh, like it explains anything.

“How can I get?” Harry asks, slightly annoyed, but more interested in anything Anne can remember about Zayn.

“You like people, you like being around people and you don’t mind being the center of everyone’s attention, do you?”

It makes Harry laugh too, because, well, it’s nothing short of the truth. It’s not that Harry doesn’t mind being the center of attention, it’s that he lives for it, wants it - is desperate for it on most days. It never had to be everyone though, Harry never felt compelled to control the whole room,  just the specific people, just the _right_ eyes not being able to turn away from him. But Harry doesn’t mind being the center of anyone’s attention when it comes down to it.

“That doesn’t mean we’re not compatible, though,” Harry adds as a way to make himself feel better, because even if Zayn keeps more to himself - and Harry already knew that - it doesn’t mean they couldn’t work together, that they don’t. Harry could take the attention off of Zayn, could divert everyone’s eyes away from Zayn, and it wouldn’t even be a hassle - more of a necessity really. Harry wouldn’t want for everyone’s eyes to linger on Zayn anyway.

“You planning the wedding already?” Anne jokes again, but it stings this time, actually physically hurts.

“No,” Harry says seriously, all laughing aside, because he can’t plan a wedding with Zayn, not if Zayn isn’t here in Harry’s now, in the present Harry is stuck with for a whole week. Harry doesn’t know if Zayn’s waiting for him this time. Maybe Zayn’s already married.

“I was kidding, come on,” Anne pokes Harry in his side, but even if he smiles, he still feels the stinging beat right next to his heart.

“When was the last time you saw him?” Harry asks, tries to change the subject away from the impossible.

“Couple of weeks ago, I think?” Anne says and thinks about it, but Harry’s heart stops again, actually skips a painful beat as he jolt upright and tries to catch his breath.

“Where? Where did you see him?” Harry asks maniacally.

“Um,” Anne is obviously confused by Harry’s sudden clear interest in practically anything to do with Zayn, but she still indulges him. “I ran into him in the store.”

“What did he say?”

“Are you okay?” Anne sounds more worried than Harry would like, but he can’t bring himself to care. At least not enough to ask again.

“He just asked how I was, asked how the family’s doing, if you and Gemma are okay. Are you sure you’re good?”

“I’m fine mom,” Harry finally breathes, his heart beating steadily again. But it doesn’t do much to calm him down, because Zayn had asked, he asked how Harry is. Zayn, the present one, the one Harry hasn’t meet yet, asked if Harry is okay. And that’s - that’s everything.

“It wasn’t anything more than a hello,” Anne continues cautiously, keeping her eyes on Harry as she talks. “We only talked for a few minutes. He said he was moving to somewhere special and I thought it was a weird thing to say, but that’s how Zayn is. He’s never been the one to fit into a box.”

Harry listens, he really does try to follow everything Anne has to say, but his mind gets stuck on ‘moving to find something _special_ ’.

Anne forgets about Harry’s slight freak out as soon as he asks if Gemma’s coming over next weekend. Harry doesn’t mean to use Gemma as a way to distract his mom, but seeing as how perfectly it worked before, it’s the only way he can put Anne at ease and still have the few minutes to run his mind over those words. It’s only after Anne has finished talking that Harry realises he hasn’t heard a single word she’s said.

Harry turns off the TV as Anne slips off to the bathroom downstairs, both tired and only able to see their beds. They don’t say anything else, just smile lovingly when they pass each other again, Harry stepping on the stairs as Anne walks down the hallway to her bedroom.

Before he got in the car this morning, Harry promised himself that he was going to go to bed early tonight, hoping to get a few extra hours of sleep and in turn, maybe dream a bit longer, maybe get an additional hour or two with Zayn. As he walks to his bedroom, Harry’s not preoccupied with the thought of how or why or anything that would make his head hurt even more.

Every Sunday, or at least the last two, he’s had the best possible nights of his life. Dreaming has always been a mystery, whether nightmares or images of pink fluffy unicorns dancing around him, Harry’s always chased after them, got caught up in the twist of reality. But this isn’t a nightmare, it isn’t a figment of his imagination, because Harry’s never _felt_ his dreams before - never has he fallen in love with a dream before. So Harry doesn’t bother getting anxious and his stomach doesn’t turn as he closes his bedroom’s door and practically collapses on his bed.

Harry settles on top of his covers and buries his face in his pillow before he exhales deeply, relaxes and gets as comfortable as he can with his jeans still on. He’s not nervous, his heartbeat is steady, but he is getting excited, can feel his fingertips pulse with who he’ll see again and what he’ll be able to do again. Harry thinks about the photos he saw, the frame sitting on Zayn’s nightstand, the way Zayn can’t keep his thumb off of his face as he talks, whether it’s to run it over his eyebrow or pinch under his bottom lip. Harry wonders what Zayn will look like this time, what Zayn’s hair will look like this time, and with the image of those long strands once reaching Zayn’s shoulders and the word _special_ on repeat in his head, Harry closes his eyes and lets go.

*

It’s not the waves that wake Harry up and his jeans aren’t wet either. He doesn’t think he has sand in his hair and if he concentrates hard enough without opening his eyes to check, Harry’s sure it’s night time. He isn’t lying in his bed and there isn’t a soft pillow underneath his head, but he is propped up, slightly elevated so that he’s half lying on something - someone.

When he used to wake up with Nina curled into his side or David pressed up against his chest, Harry never felt safe in the purest sense of the word. The kind of contentment that strives from simply being close to someone, a security that skin-to-skin holds in its essence was never on the edge of his skin when he’d touched either of them - when he was touched by either of them.

And yet, with gentle fingers tangled in his hair and soft lips pressed against his forehead in a long, patient kiss, Harry has never felt more impervious, more sheltered from the world around him than now. These are the kinds of touches he could fall asleep to, stir awake and smile first thing in the morning to, because they’re electric in the way they are caring and filled with something tangible Harry can feel ghosting over his heart. This is what Harry wants, this is what he’s been waiting for and this is what he still chases after in his dreams. It's why he opens his eyes, because even if he wouldn't want to ever move again if it were up to him, Harry wants to see Zayn more. Harry wants to stay just like he is, with Zayn's fingertips pressing against the nape of his neck and his soft breaths fanning over his cheeks.

“Hi,” Harry hums and smiles lazily up at Zayn.

“Hi.” Zayn’s voice echoes like a memory that doesn’t change, that hasn’t faltered yet and that Harry will always picture as thick honey, dripping on the tip of his tongue.

Zayn’s hair is different again, but it doesn’t surprise Harry this time, it isn’t as bad as his almost completely shaved head had been. His hair is soft, falling down on his forehead in one swooping motion and Harry wants to run his fingers through, but he doesn’t. Harry doesn’t move, because he doesn’t know what Zayn’s thinking, not this time.

It’s probably been another four years, more than one thousand days to Harry’s short seven that felt like an age all the same, like they were passing by slower than possible. Harry doesn’t know if Zayn’s waited for him like he did last time, if he has been as patient for Harry as Harry’s been anxious for him. It’s monumental, it’s beyond anything Harry has ever thought would happen to him, beyond his wildest dreams.

“I’m back,” Harry says without thinking, because Zayn’s just looking down at him, like he’s seeing him for the first time, those big brown eyes so focused on Harry’s green, Harry doesn’t know what to think.

But Zayn smiles back at him and it’s devastating that Harry doesn’t get to see that small, shy smile every day. “You are,” Zayn says, but the words aren’t as desperate as they were last Sunday, filled with disbelief and pure, unsaturated want that Harry was able to feel. It’s a clear statement, a truth Harry’s become to achingly need - more than a harbour or a home. “I missed you,” Zayn adds under his breath, like it's a secret no one else can know.

Harry doesn’t bother to agree with him, doesn’t waste even more of their time by saying a pointless ‘yes’ when he could kiss Zayn, finally kiss him again and see if his lips will still tingle afterwards, if he won’t be able to contain his smile still, and if he’ll want to melt into Zayn, like Harry does every time their lips get close, an impending kiss written in their eyes. Harry could kiss Zayn and tell him everything with it, that he’s wanted Zayn to hold him close again, grab onto his sides and never let go. Harry could show Zayn that he still melts, that the fireworks can be louder and brighter and that they can finally get lost in each other again - after all this time.

And Harry does, with a weighted sigh and a pleased moan, he’s long and lost and completely taken over. With how Harry’s head is cradled in Zayn’s lap, the kiss should be awkward, because they’re turned upside down and Harry’s never kissed someone like this before. But it really isn’t, because Zayn is still able to tease at the seam of Harry’s lips with his tongue, encase Harry’s bottom lip with his own, and move his head to the left, because Harry’s always preferred the right. They melt and they hold on, they forget and they almost make up for all those missed kisses - the ones Harry can’t give to Zayn and the ones Zayn can’t take from Harry.

They kiss until Harry needs to take a deep breath and look at Zayn - now that he can. But as much as Harry inhales a gulp of air, Zayn buries his face into the crook of his neck and hums there, apparently content with just being able to breathe Harry in and have him close. Harry’s ecstatic, he really is, overjoyed with someone finding their safety in him, but he wants to look at Zayn, because he needs to catalogue all the changes, from big and small ones, to the ones Harry thinks no one else would be able to notice.

So with a heavy heart, he shrugs his shoulder gently enough to prompt Zayn to get back up again and look down at Harry. “I missed you too,” Harry does say then, because he needs to make sure Zayn knows it, that he hears it and listens and believes Harry when he tells him that everything Harry does is miss him. Harry wants Zayn to know that he thinks Zayn is special, that he's everything, even if he's not always there.

Zayn leans back down for another too quick kiss before he murmurs, “Lets go home,” so close to Harry’s lips, he can feel them vibrate right next to his heart.

“Home,” Harry hums back as he tastes the word, feels its comforting weight on his tongue. And probably for the first time, Harry doesn’t picture the house he grew up in, the big white house he could find blindfolded or spot from a mile away, because as Zayn looks like he can’t get enough, like he won’t move his eyes away from Harry for as long as he can, Harry thinks of sitting on the couch with Zayn, the big couch that could comfortably sit six people, both of them covered with a soft blanket as Zayn’s buries his toes underneath Harry’s thigh, warming them up.

 

They don't rush with it, don't run along the ocean's edge or chase each other to Zayn's house so they get to rip their clothes off as quickly as possible. For once, there's no need. There's no one on their heels and even time seems to be drifting by in a more languid pace than usual, a second passing for each step they take. Harry bumps his shoulder with Zayn's every time Zayn tightens his fingers around Harry's hand – like he's making sure Harry's still there – like a pulse of a steady heartbeat, not unlike the one Harry can feel in his chest.

Harry gets the urge to fill the silence, to start asking questions that he's been preparing for a week, like the basic 'What's new?', to the attention seeking 'How badly did you miss me?', and the desperate 'Did you wait?'. He wants to know everything, wants to hear it all, but as soon as Harry opens his mouth and looks over at Zayn, he lets it go. It dawns on Harry that maybe it's not that important, maybe it shouldn't be about answering questions and knowing every detail Zayn can remember from the past four years. It could simply be about being together, being here and enjoying each step, every beat of Zayn's heart Harry can finally feel. Maybe it's just about being in the same time together.

“You hungry?” Zayn asks once he's on the stairs and Harry's stuck looking down at the palm prints that are still there, a reminder of how time doesn't ruin everything.

“No,” he shrugs, even if he wouldn't mind looking at Zayn move around the kitchen again.

“Good.”

And it's not Zayn's voice stooping down to a half growl or his eyes darkening. It's the smirk on Zayn's face, that half crooked twist of his lips that propels Harry up the stairs and after Zayn – if only to lick that smirk off.

 

Every time Harry catches Zayn looking at him - whether it's when Harry’s lying with his head on Zayn’s shoulder and enjoying the rise and fall of Zayn’s chest or when Harry’s walking towards the bathroom and Zayn’s right behind him - Zayn’s eyes feel charged with something - something Harry swears he can taste and smell, making him shiver and tremble and want more, so much more. It’s like Harry can’t get enough once he has Zayn at his fingertips, once all he needs to do is stretch out his neck to kiss Zayn, to bite Zayn and leave a mark that will stay longer than Harry will.

It’s when Zayn is underneath him, sprawled out, and Harry is kneeling between his thighs that he gets overwhelmed, a rush of everything he feels for a single person that isn’t a mix of intense care and adoration. That isn’t _just_ intense care and adoration. It’s awe for Zayn’s beauty and admiration for his soul, his energy and everything in between. Zayn’s unique in a way Harry’s never seemed to master, to apprehend in all of his own generic self, and Harry doesn’t know what to do with it, if he should bow down at Zayn’s feet and chant ‘thank you’ until it feels like Zayn knows how much he means to Harry.

Zayn’s soft moans, when he has his eyes shut tight and his nails deep in Harry’s back are what keeps Harry awake at night, hearing their echoes bounce off the walls of his bedroom when he turns on his side and there are no arms on his waist, no hands splayed over his chest. The way Zayn kisses Harry, messily and passionately and like he’s going to fall apart - one beautiful shattered piece at a time - makes Harry’s heart swell up and almost burst, because he feels like he’s falling apart too, right along Zayn and everything they have together.

They can’t get enough, neither of them satisfied by lying next to each other, because it feels like something is missing if they aren’t touching, if Zayn doesn’t have his hands somewhere on Harry’s skin and Harry isn’t tracing the outlines of Zayn’s tattoos.

There are more on Zayn’s arm, covering it from wrist to shoulder from small numbers to the slithering snake that’s reaching towards his back. Harry’s favourite though, the one that tastes the sweetest, the one Harry has memorised all the lines and curves of, spanning over the back of Zayn’s neck is the fantail bird. Perched on a delicate branch, it’s the only one Zayn has on his back that isn’t curving from somewhere else - like the card or the gun at Zayn’s side that puts Harry at ease, no matter how ridiculous it sounds, because he thinks Zayn will be protected by that gun. Harry doesn’t know why Zayn chose the fantail, what made Zayn want to have that bird so perfectly displayed for Harry to see every time Zayn turns on his front, but he doesn’t ask either, because it’s not about answering questions. It’s about Zayn keeping his eyes on Harry and Harry not wanting to fall asleep because he doesn’t want to lose a single second.

“Can I ask you a question?” Harry asks once they’re settled and still, lying with their limbs tangled on top of Zayn’s dark blue sheets.

“Always,” Zayn murmurs above Harry’s ear, sending shivers all along his spine.

“Did you wait?” It’s a simple question that requires an even simpler answer, a ‘yes’ or a quick ‘no’ that would feel like a lit cigarette being stubbed at Harry’s heart. Simple.

Zayn turns on his side and climbs on top of Harry, sits on his thighs so that his knees are on either side of Harry’s hips. Zayn doesn’t answer then, like Harry expected him to, just sits there and runs the tips of his fingers up and down Harry’s abdomen, sometimes almost reaching down to the small patch of hair right below Harry’s navel to see how Harry will react - Zayn’s eyes never leaving Harry’s in the process.

It’s making Harry squirm, the waiting, the fact that Zayn doesn’t just say it and gets it over with. Harry thinks he might really burst this time, is sure his heart will combust when he hears a silent, but a very clear, “Yes.”

And as simple as the word is, it makes Harry’s lips stretch into a big grin that’s probably borderline ecstatic, but he can’t help himself and he can’t contain it as he grabs Zayn at his sides and pulls him down into a scorching kiss, his smile still on his lips.

“Always,” Zayn keeps saying into the kiss, his hands twisted in Harry’s curls. “Always.” It’s Harry’s new favourite word - new favourite everything. “Always.” It’s like everything Harry was afraid of is dissipating and dissolving with Zayn’s voice, with the way he says that word like it’s a clear statement, a truth Harry’s achingly needed to hear.

They make up for their lost time, kiss for every minute they didn’t get to share and talk about everything they’ve missed, like Zayn being a teacher now, having a job that he loves - almost - more than anything else. Harry feels endeared by the way Zayn can’t stop talking once he starts, really starts talking about the kids in his classes and what he has them reading, how most of them actually read. Zayn has a dog named Rhino, because his nose is scrunched up and Zayn is cheesy and that big of a nerd, if you ask Harry, but in the total endearing nerd type of way. Rhino’s no Toby, but he is lovely as well, and he knows enough tricks for Zayn to keep his nerd status.

While Harry tries and fails - repeatedly - to teach him a simple ‘roll over’, Zayn is whipping them up a simple and quick pasta, so that they can get back in bed and continue from where they left off. And this is what Harry keeps getting back to every time he sits down during the week, when Zayn isn’t there, stretching his arm to reach the top shelf in a cupboard or bending down quickly to get the pan for the sauce. The simple things, like watching Zayn cook or teaching Zayn’s dog a trick he supposedly just needs to get the hang of - those are the things that Harry wants. Waking up in the morning with Zayn next to him, two worn-out toothbrushes in Zayn’s bathroom - instead of one pristinely new one. Harry wants to be able to take a steaming hot shower and unwind, relax from whatever type of day he’s had, and curl up next to Zayn, have Zayn hold him close enough so that Harry could feel his shallow breaths fanning over the back of his neck. That’s all Harry wants, nothing more and nothing less, just the simple satisfaction of having Zayn close. And he doesn’t think it’s too much to ask.

But right now it’s fine, because they’re both sitting cross-legged on Zayn’s bed with topped off plates in their hands and delicious pasta in their mouths. Right now, Harry is content enough to let it go and focus on the small piece of a tomato that’s right below Zayn’s bottom lip.

“You’ve got something…” Harry points to his own chin, but the instruction isn’t enough for Zayn to hit the mark. Laughing, Harry leans over because licking it off is the only next logical step, really. Sliding his tongue over Zayn’s stubble, Harry doesn’t stop laughing, because Zayn is cringing and batting him away.

“You could’ve just used a tissue,” Zayn grumbles and pouts, and Harry thinks he wouldn’t have used the word ‘cute’ to describe Zayn right until this moment.

“And you could thank me,” Harry lifts his chin and smiles, feels the way his happiness seeps down to his bones. Zayn only pouts for a second longer before his smile breaks as well. He sticks his tongue out at Harry and sloppily piles another fork-full into his mouth - Harry can’t wait to lick it off again.

“Are you into music?” Harry asks once Rhino leaves their bedroom, because he’s gone completely ignored in favour of soft skin and tantalising lips.

“Um, a little, maybe? Why?”

“Just, a friend asked me if you’re into music and I didn’t know what to say,” Harry shrugs but doesn’t otherwise move, because he hasn’t been this comfortable in what seems like years. His head is on a pillow, which is propped against Zayn’s hip so that he has the best view in town - and full access to the length of Zayn’s body at his fingertips.

“You’ve told a friend about me?” Zayn raises his head a little and Harry can see how he’s frowning.

“Not really?” Harry feels like he should be defending himself, but he doesn’t has to, he doesn’t think he’s done anything wrong. “I’ve told my two best-friends that I’ve met someone. That’s it.”

“And they asked if I’m into music?”

“Yes,” Harry responds assertively. “Niall, he’s majoring in music and it’s always the first thing he asks when he meets someone new. It’s important to him.”

“What else did you tell them about me?” Zayn asks, but his tone is different, his frown gone and instead of a straight line, his lips are turned up a little - like he’s shy all of a sudden.

“That you’re a nerd,” Harry laughs and crawls up a little along the way so that his head is next to Zayn’s chest. “That you’re my perfect nerd.”

“So all good things?” Zayn snorts, but he looks happy, as happy as Harry feels.

“Just the good things.”

“Oh,” Zayn smirks and pulls Harry on top of himself - a lot more smoothly than Harry would ever manage to pull off. “So there’s bad things too?”

“You’re not _that_ perfect, you know?” Harry says, before he bites his lips to contain his smile, straddling Zayn.

“Oh, really?” Zayn smirks. “What’s wrong with me then?”

“Hmm,” Harry taps at his chin as he pretends to think and takes the time to stare down at Zayn’s chest, the wings and the lips. Harry ends up saying, “You smoke,” because it’s the only thing he can think of - and he’s not even bothered by it, so it shouldn’t really count.

“How would you know? You’ve never seen me light a cigarette.”

“I can taste it,” Harry whispers, and he can, the smoke lingering on Zayn’s tongue, the mint from the gum he chewed and something very Zayn, it’s all there, every time they kiss.

“Not everyone is as perfect as you are, huh?” Zayn jokes, sounding a little strained, and Harry takes it as the best compliment he’s ever gotten. Kind of.

“I’m not though,” he counters quietly, concentrating on those ruby red lips. “Not even close.”

Zayn takes Harry’s hands and brings them to his lips, kisses his knuckles one by one as he says, just as quietly, “You are to me.”

“Zayn,” Harry moans and whines and moves his hips back as he leans down to lick into Zayn’s mouth - as filthily as Harry knows how. He’s writhing in a matter of very short seconds as Zayn’s hands roam over his back and his sides, and as soon as Harry pushes his hips down, they get lost in each other again, in their kisses and gently impatient touches and skilled fingers running down Harry’s back. They get lost until they find themselves melted together, until they’re both moaning and so close, and Harry barely hears a faint, “I love you.”

Opening his eyes to hear better, to see if he heard wrong, Harry finds himself breathless and lying in his own bed.


	4. 2011

It starts like it always does, with Harry driving in his car and his hair going wild around his face. It starts with Harry’s eye on the trophy that he feels he’s finally going to win and bring home, make Anne proud of her little boy. But it really isn’t about the trophy.

Harry tries to count the palm trees as he makes his way home, like he did when Anne and Des took him and Gemma on road-trips in the summer, when Harry was still young and didn’t know counting palm trees and white lines on the road would make him sick. It doesn’t make him sick anymore - maybe he grew out of it - but Harry does lose count when he gets to thirty-eight. He only manages to pass thirty-eight palm trees before his mind veers off to think of Zayn and if maybe he counts palm trees too sometimes, just to see if he can.

It’s the afternoon when Harry parks on the empty drive-way in front of Niall’s house. On his way home, he called Louis, who in more words than he needed to, explained that Niall and him will be hanging out on the beach all day and that Harry is obligated to join them. After shooting Anne a quick text, Harry headed straight for Niall’s.

It turns out, that he was only hanging out with Niall, because Louis was more interested in catching some ‘sick waves’ than actually sit down and talk to Harry, who he hasn’t seen for a week. It’s nice though, to just sit with Niall and for a turn, give him a chance to talk since they kept missing each other since Tuesday.

“I asked Barbara out,” Niall says, staying true to who he is, because Niall just comes out with it, says it point blank and doesn’t shy away from a chance to brag about a girl.

“You like her?”

“I really do, man,” Niall says and turns his head towards Harry. “And she’s so hot.” The look on Niall’s face is unsettling, his barely-there smile and radiant eyes, something Harry isn’t used to seeing on his friend’s face. But it’s unsettling in a good way, the best.

“That’s good to hear,” Harry’s words are full of genuine positivity and slight envy, but he can’t help it.

“You should really meet her sometime,” Niall puffs out his chest. “We should go on a double date or something, make it a thing.”

“Yeah,” Harry nods his head, but cringes internally. “Totally.”

“Great. You’re gonna love Barbara, I already know.”

And it sounds so simple, going out to a nice restaurant where they’d eat steak and drink some red wine, talk and laugh at those stupid ‘How did you meet?’ stories every couple has - or makes up. Barbara would end up leaning heavily against Niall later in the night, and Harry wouldn’t be able to wait to get home with Zayn, to rip his clothes off and get lost in his lips for hours. It sounds so simple when Harry pictures it, that he almost forgets.

“So how’s it going with your guy anyway?”

And that’s simple question as well, because the only answer Harry can think of is ‘It’s not,’ but the one that he actually says is, “Good, it’s going really good.”

“Is it? You don’t sound so sure.”

Leave it to Niall to pick on the slight frown that Harry always gets on Sundays, Harry thinks, but it’s not bitter. Niall’s his best-friends, of course he’s gonna notice stupid shit like that. Plus, it’s Niall.

“It’s good,” Harry affirms with what he’s sure is a convincing nod, it’s just that he is quite sure who he’s trying to convince. “It’s great even, just, kind of complicated.”

“Harry,” Niall says with a tone that makes Harry’s skin crawl. “Is he really not married?”

“Of course not,” he says as he wonders the same thing, because he doesn’t know, does he? Harry doesn’t know anything anymore.

“Sorry, it’s just, don’t know why else it would be complicated. Does he have a kid or something? A drug problem?”

“Nothing like that, no. He’s, um,” Harry starts, but has to bite his lip. He wants to come clean, have someone else carry the burden of knowing, just knowing. “He’s not from around here, so it’s complicated. Gets hard, you know?”

“Yeah, man,” Niall agrees. “I miss Barbara already and I saw her yesterday.”

“I haven’t seen him all week.”

“That’s gotta suck,” Niall says and successfully manages to make Harry laugh. It definitely sucks. “When’re you gonna see him again?”

“Tonight,” Harry shrugs, like it’s no big deal.

“Well, well,” Niall wiggles his eyebrows and Harry laughs again. “So things aren’t all bad, huh?”

“Not all bad, no.”

And they aren’t, they really aren’t, because Harry gets to see Zayn again tonight, gets to kiss him and touch him, and then it’s only another week before - before Zayn gets to actually be here, where Harry’s been waiting for him. Another week and Zayn doesn’t have to wait a second longer.

“I’ve gotta run to the club, but tell Louis he’s a dick for ditching us,” Niall says instead of a goodbye, but he makes Harry laugh again before he goes off, like he has some magic power. They should form some sort of a club: The Time Traveller Boy and Laughing Man. It’d be a hit.

Harry doesn’t leave though, not yet. The sunset is too beautiful to stand up and turn his back on. Louis won’t leave the water for at least another hour, maybe two, and Harry is in no way going to wait for him. If he didn’t care enough to at least come say hi, Harry is not about to wait to say bye either.

The sand isn’t cold yet and the ocean’s louder than it’s been in a while - big, dangerous waves smashing down and twisting into themselves, crashing on the sand like a punishment, a well-deserved beating - and Harry doesn’t want to leave just yet. He feels like that sometimes, like he’s thinking himself into a twister of everything that he’s ever done wrong. The time he pushed Gemma off a swing-set because she wouldn’t let him have a turn. How he wouldn’t let Louis have a ride on his new electric blue bike. And how he sometimes counted palm trees and the lines on the road just so that he’d be sick, because it meant he’d get to sit up front, get whatever he wanted once they’d stop at a gas station to clean up the car. It all smashes down and twists into itself, forming one suffocating memory Harry can’t swim away from - even if he’d try.

But then Harry thinks about the time he and Zayn took Rhino for a midnight walk, just because Harry wanted to have a reason to hold Zayn hand. Or the time Zayn was sitting so close to Harry, they didn’t need a blanket when the bonfire died and how they couldn’t stop kissing, how they can never stop kissing. Harry only has to think of what’s happened and everything that can, that _will_ happen tonight to smile, to feel his lips stretch and curve on their own accord, like he’s lost the claim over them ever since the first time Zayn had kissed him.

Harry wonders if it’s about the good outweighing the bad, about there being so many good moments and memories that you can’t even remember what a fight from last week was about, because it doesn’t matter. Not in the long run. Not in the big picture. Maybe that’s what Zayn saw, what he had his eyes on when he said it, when he whispered it so close to Harry’s lips that Harry won’t ever forget the etch that the words left behind. Maybe that’s what love is.

Harry does actually sit on the beach long enough to see Louis paddle towards the shore, but because Harry usually doesn’t need to be the bigger person - and because it’s Louis - he stands up when Louis’ is close enough to hear, and yells out, “Niall says you’re a dick,” before he turns around and leaves.

When he gets home, Harry greeted by Robin’s usual pat on the back and Anne’s warm hug with a kiss to his forehead that Harry doesn’t try to wipe off. Harry promises he’s not hungry when Anne says he’s got dinner in the fridge, which was a mistake, because it prompts Anne to raise her eyebrow and ask a concerned, “You okay?”

“I’m fine mom,” Harry waves a dismissive hand, like it’ll reassure her in anyway. “Just tired.”

“Okay, well, go to sleep hon’. We’ll talk tomorrow.” The smile she sends his way when Harry starts ascending the stairs doesn’t quite put him at ease.

Harry comes home every Sunday and major holiday, which is more than most, but to him, to Anne, it isn’t enough. If Harry could, he would stay home for an indefinite amount of time. There’s nothing like sleeping in your own bed and waking up to your mother’s pancakes in the morning, Harry knows, and there’s nothing like the peace and quiet that envelops their house at night, when everyone has gone to sleep and Harry lays awake in bed, thinking of everything that could have been, everything that once was.

Tonight though, Harry can hear the TV from downstairs and the violent waves that keep hitting the shore, crashing down and pulling sand into the ocean before crashing down again just outside his bedroom’s window. Tonight, Harry thinks of everything that could happen, everything that _will_.

*

It starts with Harry waking up on the beach. He’s lying parallel to the shore and half his body is in the water, salt clinging to his clothes.

This time, it’s special, something it hasn’t been, because this time, it’s the last time Harry has to wake up underneath glimmering stars just to be with Zayn. It’s the fourth time Harry went to sleep and woke up with Zayn - or now, without. If Harry’s dreams really do become reality ever four years, every Sunday, then this is the last Sunday he will wake up in a different place than where he fell asleep.

Zayn is supposed to be waiting for Harry on the beach with a blanket thrown over Harry’s legs so that he doesn’t get cold, maybe cradle his head in his lap again - Harry really liked that. But Harry doesn’t wake up to kisses and soft breaths. There isn’t anyone holding his hand or waiting for him. Instead, the waves splashing against Harry’s body are turning from calming and centering, to aggravating and annoying, like they’re mocking him for just lying there and not getting up to go find Zayn. Harry opens his eyes and sits up, throws his hands between his legs.

It isn’t anywhere near the worst wake up Harry’s had the displeasure of getting - not when he grew up with Gemma, who had a thing for torturing Harry in his sleep - but he still thought Zayn was going to at least show up, walk down to where Harry’s sitting in the sand like he did once before. As Harry looks around himself and tries to focus his eyes, he doesn’t see anyone walking along the stretch of beach.

The sun is setting, the sky was tinged with a deep purple and a heavenly orange, the colours fading as quickly as the sun is being swallowed up by the sea and it’s perfect - it could have been - if Harry wasn’t alone, if there was someone holding his hand.

Maybe it would have been too perfect if Harry was sitting between Zayn’s legs and his back was pressed against Zayn’s chest, turning his head around so they could still kiss as the colours morphed into a deep, rich blue. The stars would’ve been there for them to count, and they would’ve been the only one’s there besides the moon. Harry can see it, can feel Zayn’s lips on the back of his neck, can taste the cigarettes on Zayn’s tongue and feel how Zayn wouldn’t let him go, not for a second, but then that would have been too perfect. And too perfect isn’t perfect at all.

Love isn’t that easy, it isn’t easy at all. It might make Harry smile for no reason and sometimes, it’s hard to think about anything else but how him and Zayn just lie in bed talking, thinking they had an infinite amount of time to spend just licking into each other’s mouths. But it isn’t that easy and it shouldn’t be too perfect.

No one says the fourth time’s the charm, because it isn’t. Four isn’t a particularly lucky number, not for Harry, not like three or seven are supposed to be - magical and special. But that’s not why the number’s stuck in Harry’s head - it’s because five isn’t lucky either.

With a heavier heart than it’s ever been, Harry stands up and tries to brush off the sand profusely sticking to his jeans and t-shirt, when he remembers that’s it’s sand and there’s no way of getting it off. It’s about wasting time they don’t have and he thought Zayn would know that, Harry reasons with himself as he walks up those stairs, forgetting to stop to look at the hand prints. It’s about spending every second they get together, because time isn’t infinite, isn’t _just there_ and Harry can’t spend every waking minute licking into Zayn’s mouth - no matter how much he’d want to do just that. Too perfect may not be as golden as it seems, but Harry can’t think of why Zayn wouldn’t show up. And then it hits him.

Rushing up the steps as fast as he can, Harry catapults himself to the door and bangs on it like crazy, like every time his fist slams against the bridle wood, there’s less of a chance for his thoughts to be true.

And then- And then Zayn doesn’t answer the door, though Harry isn’t a hundred percent sure, because his vision is too blurry and he can’t quite catch his breath. What Harry focuses on is the hand holding the door open and how it’s missing a small outline of swallow. The arm connected to that hand is too bulky and foreign for Harry to do anything but continue to breathe through it, one deep inhale at a time.

“Yes?” The guy that isn’t Zayn, but is for a reason unknown to Harry still answering Zayn’s door drags out.

“Um,” Harry rushes, but has to stop to breathe. “Is Zayn here?”

Everything is taking too much of the time he doesn’t have.

The guy raises an eyebrow in confusion or worry, Harry doesn’t really care which, not when he then yells out for Zayn to get the door, because someone is looking for him, walking away from the door that does not belong to him - Harry hopes.

Harry isn’t _someone_ and technically, he isn’t looking for Zayn either, and it takes this much for Harry to not correct whoever this guy thinks he is. It’s not a search, it’s a journey to get to the trophy, the destination always being Zayn, always the same beach with the same house, and the same bed Harry wants to crawl into and never leave.

“Who is it?” Harry hears Zayn ask as he makes his way to the back door, and that’s it. Harry feels his knees melt and his heart jump at just the sound of Zayn’s voice - exactly like Harry remembers. But Harry doesn’t know what he’s going to see or what he’s going to get this time. Harry never knows what he’s going to get when he wakes up on the beach.

As some things are evergreen and never-changing, others are fluid and flowing, impossible to tie with a piece of string like a balloon, put on a leash like a dog. Love, Harry supposes, isn’t meant to be tied down or held captive - it doesn’t fit into a steel cage or a chest of drawers. It’s free, there for the taking but as easy to catch as a hummingbird. You can look at it, admire it on the rare occasion even, when it perches on a tree for a quick second, but it flies away too soon, batting its wings and disappearing into the unreachable sky as quickly as it caught your eye. It’s never there for long, and just when you think you have it, when it’s right there for you to take, for you to own, it dissipates like a cloud of smoke. Like it was never there to begin with.

That’s what Harry’s thinking, when Zayn comes to stand in front of him with his mouth slightly open and eyes wide. Harry thinks of this as a comically big hourglass, spinning around in circles and never staying still long enough for Harry to actually see how the sand sloshes against the confinements of the glass. It feels like he’s the sand trapped inside it.

Zayn’s always changing, every time Harry sees him it’s almost like he’s looking at a different person. He’s beautiful, always has been, with those high cheekbones and honey eyes that Harry can feel search his face as he stands there, on the other side of Zayn’s door, waiting. The first time Harry saw him, Zayn was casted in a deep shadow, his hair was so long Harry could wrap a strand around his finger and he was young, younger than Harry. It was fun, reckless and a rush Harry’s never felt before. That first night was perfect.

Now, Harry’s standing in Zayn’s doorway, his clothes are soaked and it isn’t all that fun anymore. His heart isn’t beating its way out of Harry’s chest because it’s a rush, because it’s reckless and he’s laughing out of pure joy. Harry can hear his heart in his ears because Zayn’s _right there_ and he’s fine and he’s _blonde_ and still so beautiful _._ But nothing is ever perfect.

So as Zayn says a weak “Hi,” that comes out more as a breath than anything else, Harry doesn’t say anything in return. He doesn’t think he can just yet.

Zayn's standing in front of him in a pair of grey sweats and a simple black t-shirt, barefoot and blonde. His hair's short again and as much as Harry still thinks Zayn with long hair is his favourite, this isn't that bad either. It brings out Zayn’s eyes, his eyelashes, cheekbones and Harry thinks Zayn’s never looked more angelic. There's a stud in his nose, the tiniest fleck that catches some of the light from the living room behind Zayn and Harry's still quiet, still doesn't say anything, because he's still taking Zayn in.

From what Harry can see behind Zayn, there are frames lining the walls, more of them then there were last time - like a new photo of Zayn with his parents, probably taken down in Florida in front of their house if Harry’s seeing right, but he doesn’t really focus on the background, doesn’t want to hear the dog barking as he looks at Zayn and sees what four years have done to him.

The one thing Harry keeps noticing as his eyes run over Zayn face and broad shoulders, the subtle lines around his eyes and his hands, is how Zayn isn’t young any more, isn’t younger than Harry now. And that’s something Harry’s never thought about before, how time also means age, how Harry was only older than Zayn that one time.

Much older than the first night, Harry thought that Zayn would’ve known better, that he would’ve wanted to see Harry as soon as he could. Harry really did think that Zayn was going to be there when he woke up.

“You weren’t there,” is the first thing Harry says, quietly, but not as an accusation. It’s a statement of truth, a simple fact of what happened. Harry isn’t angry or even disappointed, he doesn’t think he’s had the time to feel the ache of it, of having to walk up those stairs alone.

“Harry…” Zayn breathes out and his face changes, going from surprised to sad in the time it takes for him to says Harry’s name. In no time at all.

“Why weren’t you there?” Harry asks because this is what he need to do first, to get it over with and waste as little of the precious time they get as he can - too much of it is already gone.

“Harry,” Zayn repeats himself like it’s the only thing he can say and Harry wouldn’t have minded four years ago, if Zayn just kept saying it over and over, nothing but Harry’s name on the tip of his tongue, but Harry does mind now. It’s not an answer, it’s not what Harry wants to hear. It doesn’t mean anything now.

So Harry doesn’t ask anything else, doesn’t say another word as they stand there, looking at each other in silence, waiting. Zayn brings his thumb up to his eyebrow at some point, keeps smoothing the short hairs, avoids looking at Harry and Harry just stares. It’s all he can do.

“You disappeared,” Zayn starts then, after Harry’s eyes started to glaze over, after Harry felt his bottom lip start to quiver. Zayn starts when it’s almost too late. “Last time, you just - you disappeared again.”

Zayn’s voice isn’t what Harry’s used to hearing, isn’t as confident and strong. Harry doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

“I didn’t want to,” Harry says, feels like he needs to say it, make it clear that he didn’t go by choice. Leaving Zayn is never his choice.

“I know.”

And then they’re quiet again and Harry still doesn’t get it, still doesn’t know.

“You weren’t there,” Harry says again, like this time, Zayn’s going to explain, give him a good enough reason. But Harry doesn’t think there even is a good enough reason.

“I know.”

“Why?” Harry asks and hears how wet his voice sounds, how it cracks a little and it’s enough for Zayn to finally look at him.

“Come on,” Zayn says, nodding his head towards the inside of the house. He turns around and starts walking to the kitchen, leaving Harry standing there, wondering if he should even pass the threshold this time. Maybe four really isn’t a lucky number.

Harry sits down on the couch and waits. He still doesn't know what to do with his hands, so he keeps them in his lap, his fingers intertwined and slightly shaking while his clothes probably leave wet marks on the soft cushions. He tries to focus on the photos, on the frames all over the walls that always made Harry feel at home, like he's welcomed, like his photo could belong there too. There are a few new ones, like the one he saw standing outside - the one of Zayn with his parents - , but there are a couple of others, like the one of Zayn and the guy who answered the door, arms thrown over each other's shoulders and big smiles on their faces. It's a nice photo, of course it is, Zayn looks really happy with him, whoever he is and it makes Harry happy too. Harry spots them together in a couple more photos, other people around them, but they're always stood together, always pressed close and smiling. And Harry can't help but think that, if Zayn is happy, then so is Harry.

“Call me if you need anything,” is what Harry hears the guy say as he and Zayn walk towards the living room. He must be important to Zayn, Harry can see that, can see it in the way Zayn puts his hand on his shoulder and smiles at him reassuringly, like a silent thank you for being there.

"I will," Zayn nods.

"I'm serious Zayn," the guy says and Harry doesn't like the way he says Zayn's name, doesn't like how he makes it sound.

“I'll see you tomorrow, Liam,” Zayn says and looks over at where Harry's been sitting, waiting.

Liam waves and walks towards the back of the house, down the stairs and past the palm prints Harry didn't take a second to stop and look at.

“So,” Zayn says as he sits down on the other end of the couch, leaving a space for those other four people that Harry doesn't think will be joining them. Zayn doesn't say anything else, just looks down at his feet and sits there, like he's waiting for Harry to say something, to say that it's okay, that they don't have to talk about it.

And Harry can't stand it.

Harry wants to scream, not at Zayn or anyone in particular for that matter – maybe himself – just scream as loudly and harshly as he can, until his throat hurts and there are tears in his eyes from the force of it. Until he finally lets everything out, the frustration that's been building since his birthday, since the first time he saw that picture of Zayn. Harry knows it's not Zayn's fault, that it's not his own fault either and that's why he wants to scream. It's no one's fault, there's no one to blame, no one Harry can point a finger to and say “You did this”. And that's the worst part of it all.

 _It's hard work_ Harry repeats to himself as Zayn still doesn't bring his eyes up from his feet and he can feel his lips quiver again, can feel he's been on the brink of crying since he woke up. “I missed you,” he whispers, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth to keep it still, to keep a front Zayn could probably see through anyway – if he looked at Harry.

“I missed you too,” Zayn whispers back just as quietly, but as Harry looks over at him, he looks solid, like he's completely okay and perfectly fine. And Harry thinks maybe it's a front too, maybe he's ready to break down and curl into himself on the couch as well – but Harry can't tell.

“Then why didn't you show up?” Harry asks, because he has to, needs to know why.

Zayn looks like he isn't going to say anything though, like he's going to let the absence of his answer hang in the air between them again, but just as Harry takes in a gulp of air and lets it build up, wants to let it go and watch as it explodes in a scream, Zayn says a steady, “I forgot.”

So, Harry forgets to breathe.

Every four years, every Sunday when Harry didn't know where he was going to wake up, Zayn had been there. When Harry walked towards the group of people around the bonfire, Zayn was there, sitting on that big rock that Harry hasn't been able to walk past since. When Harry was sitting on the beach with his toes buried in the sand, watching how the moon reflected its shine over the ocean, Zayn found him. Zayn found him sitting alone and Harry may not have thought about it then, but Zayn _found_ him, and that has to mean something, has to represent something more than just coincidence and chance. When Harry woke up on the beach last week, with soft fingers combing through his hair, he wanted that to be his forever. Every kiss to his temple, graze of lips tracing the lines of his eyebrows meant a silent _I'll always be here._ Harry felt the words _I miss you, even when you're here I already miss you_ etch into his lips when Zayn kissed him. A taste of what Harry thought was _I love you_ on his tongue and an _I'll wait, for however long, I'll always wait for you_ imprinted into his skin, on every inch Zayn has touched. Harry felt it all, tasted it and saw it with his own eyes, tried to say it back with every kiss, every touch, every time his fingers tightened in Zayn's shirt. Harry must have missed the underlined, _But I might forget_.

“You forgot?” he manages to whisper, his voice cracking but Harry no longer cares, doesn't have it in him to clear his throat and try again, make himself sound less broken.

Zayn sighs and leans back against the arm of the couch, brings his legs up to his chest and wraps his hands around his ankles. He looks like he's twenty again, young and inexperienced, his eyes without a single trace of age, of all the time that has gone by for him. Harry sits back as well, untangles his fingers and waits for Zayn to look at him, to finally see that chocolate fleck.

“When you disappeared,” Zayn starts, but he doesn't sound as solid, as put together anymore. “I didn't handle it too well. It was– .”

And there it is, Harry thinks maybe a little too happily, as Zayn can't get through his words, chokes a little and has to start again. It was a front.

“I went down to Florida for a while, went away from here, from this house. You disappeared from my arms, Harry,” Zayn says and looks up at him, finally connects his eyes with Harry's and Harry wants to scream again. “And all I kept thinking was that I wasn't going to have you in my arms for another four years.”

And as much as this isn't Harry's fault, as much as it's no one's fault, it feels a lot like Zayn's blaming him. Harry feels as if Zayn's holding him personally accountable for what's happening, like he can control it, like Harry even knows what's happening anymore.

“I told my mom,” Zayn whispers quietly, like it's a secret, like he's afraid about what might happen now that he's said it. And Harry thinks he should be. “I told her as much as I could without telling her everything.” Zayn's eyes shine as he keeps talking, maybe from the tears that are threatening to fall, but Harry thinks it's because he's trying to tell him something, show him how he had nothing else to lose, no other choice. “You know what's the first thing she asked when she picked me up at the airport?”

Zayn chuckles, but it's not a happy sound, not really.

“What?”

“She asked why I looked like someone broke my heart,” Zayn shakes his head and chuckles again. “20 something years old and I started crying in front of my mother.”

The laughter leaves Zayn's face completely as he says it out loud, his eyes still shining, and Harry doesn't know what to do with his hands again. The thought of Zayn hurting so badly, so horribly, when Harry doesn't know what to do, if he could even hold Zayn - if Zayn would want that - is too much to take in. But the thought of Harry being the cause of Zayn's heartache, like he would ever be capable of doing such a thing is enough for him to stand up and start pacing.

“So it's my fault?” Harry asks as calmly as he can bring himself to, hand on his forehead as he tries to put his thoughts in order, making sense of everything running through his head harder than he imagined. “It's my fault that I can't stay here and be with you?”

Harry stops in front of Zayn, his eyes wide and this time, it's his turn to wait. He stands there, breathing in and out, in and out as he waits for Zayn to answer him.

“That's not what I said,” Zayn says and keeps his tone leveled, but Harry knows he wants to stand up as well. He probably wants to scream too.

“It's not? Because it's what I heard.”

“What I said,” Zayn emphasises the word, as if Harry's having trouble understanding, “was that it hurts, Harry. Every time you leave, it hurts like hell, and I'm sorry if after all this time, I tried so hard to be okay with it that I fucking forgot you were gonna be back today. I'm sorry.”

Harry's left standing there speechless. He can't quite wrap his head around it, how Zayn doesn't know how much it pains Harry to go, how hard it is for him too. How he spends most nights lying awake in the bed that doesn't feel like his own, wondering if it's worth it, if everything he could possibly give Zayn, everything Harry has to give is even worth the pain and the waiting. Harry never thought _he_ 'd be worth the wait.

“It hurts me too, Zayn,” Harry half pleads, tries to make Zayn understand that he's not alone in this, that there's Harry feeling every smile and every tear as well. “I know I only have to wait a week and that's nothing, I know it's nothing, but I thought you, I don't know... I thought you cared enough to show up,” Harry breathes out. “I thought you were waiting for me.”

“Cared enough?” Zayn does stand up then, and for a split second, Harry thinks _Good_. But then he sees the look in Zayn's eyes, how his hands are pressed into fists, how his eyes are no longer shining. “I love you, don't you get that? I've loved you since the first time I saw you Harry, when I didn't know what was happening or who you even were, I loved you.”

“Then why didn't you wait?”

“All I ever do is fucking wait!” Zayn's voice raises and Harry takes a step back.

Harry doesn't live in a fairytale, so he doesn't tell himself not to cry, he doesn't even try to hold back his tears as he stands there, watching the violent raise and fall of Zayn's chest. Harry doesn't try to keep himself composed as he lets Zayn's words sink in, because it's the truth, a statement of fact. Zayn is always waiting, always patient and nothing but a dream to Harry. Zayn might just be too perfect.

“And all I ever do is leave, right?” Harry sounds defeated, like this is his last battle and he's giving in, waving a white flag over his head as he lowers it, admits he's over-powered and exhausted. “That's what you're saying, isn't it? That it's not fair?”

“Of course it isn't fucking fair,” Zayn's pacing now, walking from the couch to where Harry's standing, where Harry's waiting for this to be over and he can go back to sleep. “It's never _been_ fair.”

“So that's it? This is it?” Harry asks, looking down at his hands, shaking again, but he doesn't know why. He breathes out a laboured breath and stands there, feeling the hourglass finally settle down, the humming bird flap its wings to fly up into the sky, disappearing like a cloud of smoke.

“What are you talking about?” Zayn says, but Harry doesn't look up, doesn't see how his eyes get wide. Harry didn't stop to look at the palm prints and he doesn't stop to see Zayn looks like he doesn't understand what Harry's asking him. Harry doesn't know he's missing it.

“You didn't wait for me,” Harry shrugs and sighs, his shoulders relaxing as the sand keeps sliding down, keeps filling the bottom half of the glass.

“Are you even listening to me?” Zayn asks, his voice louder again, more forceful, like he's on an edge again, ready to jump. Harry wishes he could be there too – maybe they could jump together.

Harry brings his eyes up to look at Zayn as he shrugs again, missing everything. “I always leave and you always wait. It's not fair. It's not worth it,” Harry states, like he's reading items off a list. “So this is it."

Zayn takes a step towards Harry, but Harry matches it and takes a step backwards. He wants to sleep, wants to leave and get out of this house and sleep in his own bed where all his secrets are piled underneath his pillow. Harry doesn't want Zayn to come closer.

“Can you just– ,” Harry starts, but doesn't think he has it in him to ask. He isn't sure if he wants to know, isn't sure if he can take it, but Harry has to know, has to hear Zayn say it. “Did you wait?”

It's a simple question that requires an even simpler answer, a simple yes or a no that will tear Harry's heart in half.

“You left me,” Zayn says and takes another step forward, but Harry doesn't match him this time, doesn't think he can move a finger. “You always leave me, and I always wait,” Zayn continues, but it's not an answer, it's not the no Harry's waiting to hear. “Why would you even ask me that?”

“Because I don't know,” Harry admits easily, talking on autopilot. “I'm asking, because I don't know.”

And Harry doesn't miss Zayn's look of hurt this time, doesn't miss how his eyebrows draw closer together and Zayn's hands finally relax. Harry doesn't miss it, but he doesn't know what it means anymore.

“Don’t put your inability to trust on me, Harry. It’s not my fault you don’t think I can wait for you, that I _have_ waited for you. I’ve been waiting for thirteen - _thirteen_ years, and this is what I get for it? When I’m not even done waiting?”

This where it really starts, because Harry couldn't take anything less than a no for an answer, because Harry couldn't believe that he made Zayn wait another four years. Harry didn't want to think of what that meant. So Harry does what he does best. He pulls a string, strikes a cord and gets all the attention he's always wanted.

“Who's Liam?” he asks as Zayn stands there, ready to take another step closer to Harry, when Harry sees it, when he hears the click that goes off somewhere in Zayn's mind. Zayn stops and stares.

“You don't– ,” Harry starts to explain, tries to justify that he needs to know before he leaves again, that he needs to be done with it, but Zayn cuts him off with a venomous, “Fuck you.”

This is where it really starts, because Harry couldn't take anything less than a no for an answer, because Harry couldn't believe that he made Zayn wait for another four years. Harry didn't want to think of what that meant, so Harry did what he does best. He pulls a string, strikes a cord and gets all the attention he's always wanted. So it actually starts with Harry slamming the door and locking himself in the bathroom.

 _It's hard work and compromise_ is on an endless loop in his head as he bangs it against the tiled wall in time with Zayn's knocks. An exchange of a _thump_ ringing in Harry's ears as another _thump_ echoes outside, a gentle knock masking the heated frustration that must be eating at Zayn. They sound like a metronome, like the lines are passing in front of Harry's eyes faster than he can count, than he can follow, and Harry thinks he's gonna be sick.

Harry asked, because he needed to know if Zayn waited, if even though he forgot, Zayn still waited for him. He doesn’t know how he would feel if Zayn didn’t, if Zayn had gone out and found someone new, someone meaningless for one night or someone like Liam, who has a place in Zayn’s life – his face smiling on the walls of Zayn’s living room. Harry would hate it, he’s sure, he knows that much, but he wouldn’t be able to blame Zayn, not really.

Zayn had waited for him, all those times, when Harry didn't even know what was happening – when he had less of an idea of what might be happening – Zayn was in his house, walking on the beach and going to college while waiting for Harry to come back to him. For eight years, Zayn has been waiting and Harry can't bring himself to hate him if he didn't wait for another four. It really wouldn't be fucking fair. No one is to blame, there’s no one they can point a finger to, so Harry doesn't want to point it at Zayn, not like this. But then, the thought of Zayn waiting, of him spending every single night alone in the bed Harry dreams of, makes Harry’s heart ache more than the thought of someone keeping Zayn company on those lonely nights.

Zayn’s knocks haven’t stopped and they won’t either, Harry thinks as he slides down to the cold floor, his forehead on his knees. He shouldn’t have asked, shouldn’t have been impatient and angry because Zayn didn't come to get him, to meet him and jump up and down as soon as he saw Harry. But, as horrible as it is for Harry to go to bed alone with a phantom feeling of hands being pressed against his chest, of deep shallow breaths fanning out against the nape of his neck, there’s still a ringing in his ears from everything Zayn’s said, from everything he yelled in a voice Harry’s never heard before. It wasn’t golden honey reflecting with the morning's warmth, it was venom spat at Harry's heart without a care, like Zayn didn't know it would burn its way through and leave a gaping scar throbbing in Harry's chest.

Zayn will stay in front of the bathroom door as long as Harry's in it, as long as it takes for Harry to leave him all over again, and it might not even take as long this time, Harry thinks bitterly. He wants to stay locked in Zayn's bathroom forever, like maybe time can't find him here and he can be safe, in the purest sense of the word.

Harry wants to stay, whether he's home where Anne cooks simple lunches and grand dinners for Thanksgiving and Christmas, or sitting on the beach with Niall while they watch Louis dominate the waves, Harry always wants to stay.

When Harry was seven, he learned how leaving felt first hand, on his own skin and with his own family. When Harry was seven everyone around him was leaving, but Des did leave first, like a catalyst spurring everything else along with him. Des didn't need more than a day to pack his boxes and Harry wondered if it was because he left everything behind for them, for Anne and Harry and Gemma, because he loved them that much. Harry thought that Des left everything behind because he couldn't stay himself. The ancient grandfather clock with the broken gong, silent throughout the day, and the crooked glasses on the coffee table, sitting on the carefully folded newspaper were all left behind. His shaving cream, his tool box, the book about travelling to the centre of the Earth that Des lent Harry – the one Harry still hasn't read, but keeps on the shelf in his bedroom. For years, Harry had convinced himself, even told Niall about it the first time they got drunk on cheep beer together, that Des loved them so much, but couldn't stay.

So Harry made sure to leave something behind everywhere he went as well, because he thought it's how he could show people that he hated leaving, that he wanted to stay, but couldn't find a way to. When Harry flirts with Mr Carter, his statistics professor, it isn't because he wants the man to shamefully ask him to stay in class after everyone leaves, so he can run his hand up Harry's thigh while talking about numbers and sequences and words Harry doesn't understand. When Harry carries a woman's stroller up a flight of stairs, Harry doesn't want to make her feel grateful, to hear the heartfelt 'Thank you' that is sure to come his way. Harry isn't selfless when he drops the last of his change to a guy that put effort into making a sign. It's a way of leaving something behind, a half used tube of shaving cream waiting on the bathroom's sink that will remind whoever sees it of the man that couldn't stay, that didn't really want to leave, but had no other chance. Harry wants to stay, he wants to be remembered, even if it's with a wine bottle or a story a spouse will tell her husband while she rocks her child to sleep. With their eyes on his back and his name somewhere on someone's mind, Harry insures that he won't be forgotten. Harry wants to have the trophy.

And Gemma can't stay. She hasn't had a serious relationship since she was twelve and head over heels over Timmy, the kid from one street over. She barely managed to commit to her major and graduate, now hopping from one job to another, pissing her bosses off just so that they have an excuse to let her go, just so she doesn't have to stay. Gemma makes sure she's forgotten, that she isn't on any one's mind for too long, because it might mean someone will miss her. And Gemma knows how it feels to miss someone. Just as Harry knows how it feels to be forgotten, irrelevant and cast aside, because someone doesn't care enough to stay.

Niall's parents are there. Every step of Niall's life they have been right by Niall's side, or right behind Niall or sitting front row at every one of his recitals in primary school. They were the loudest at their high school graduation, hollering when it was Niall's class standing on that big stage. And Niall doesn't try to be remembered, doesn't fight to be forgotten before he even leaves a room. He focuses on the things he loves and the people he cares about and he doesn't flee without even thinking about his reading glasses.

Des didn't leave everything behind because he loved them so much or because he wanted to leave a part of himself behind to remind Harry that he's missed, that someone's thinking about him. Des didn't spend more than a day packing his boxes, his one suitcase and a box of things he could find as quickly as possible, because he wanted to leave, he wanted to be forgotten. Des wanted to make sure he'd be forgotten the next day. But then again, it really isn't about the trophy.

Harry could do that, he could stand up, unlock the door and kiss Zayn one more time. Harry could look at that chocolate fleck as he whispers a short something close to Zayn's ear before he walks down the stairs and past the palm prints – maybe even look down at them, just to leave another piece behind – before he would walk down the beach and never see Zayn again. Harry would hope he'd either leave something behind, maybe just the phantom feeling of his back being pressed against Zayn's chest, or he'd hope Zayn would forget him before he even walked out of his house.

But Zayn hasn't stopped knocking, _thump thump thump,_ and he won't stop, not until Harry is still in there, for as long as it takes for him to stand up and take a deep breath while trying to not see his reflection in the mirror. Harry already has a hand on the doorknob, holding it in a tight grip, his wrist ready to turn and arm to pull when he hears how Zayn clears his throat and takes a deep breath of his own.

“Remember when I told you how my parents almost broke up?” Harry faintly hears, like Zayn isn't really trying to get his attention, like Zayn's hoping maybe Harry won't hear what he has to say. But Harry hears and he listens, takes his hand off the doorknob and leans his head against the door, as he listens so carefully, Harry's sure he can hear the quiet beating of Zayn's heart.

“When I was eighteen and my parents were going through a rough patch? When we were all going through a rough patch?” Zayn asks and Harry remembers, knows by heart what Zayn told him that night however long ago, but this time, when Harry feels like he can't do anything else, he listens as well. “I don't know if you remember, but I told you that my parents forgot me for a while. I resented them, I– , I think I even hated them at one point. I didn't understand how they could just forget about me, you know? I got that they hurt, that is was hard and painful. It wasn't easy for me either, but they just forgot I was there, because they hurt _that much_. And,” Zayn stops.

Harry can hear how he leans his back against the other side of the door, and as cliché as it might be, as foolish as Harry feels when he does it, he still presses his hand where he thinks Zayn's shoulder is. Harry knows it's stupid, but he hopes Zayn knows he's listening.

“And now I do. I know how easy it is to forget about something – someone, when you're trying really hard to let it go. It doesn't even matter of you love them or if you're hurting them in the end, you just forget because it's easier that way. It's easier to feel one thing at a time, Harry, and I'm sorry if I hurt you, I'm sorry that I didn't remember, but I just – I couldn't.”

There it is, Harry thinks for the second time that night, but it's not malicious this time, because it's the truth, laid out bare and open, right there for Harry to have, to own. As much as Harry tries – as hard he works every day – Zayn somehow still managed to forget about him. Gemma would be happy, Niall wouldn't know what's going on and Des would probably be proud, but Harry is used to it. Harry isn't new to being left behind, to being put on the back burner, but not because Zayn would want to let it simmer and build up, but because it was too much and sometimes, on those rare occasions that happen maybe once in a blue moon, once every four years, it's better to have nothing than the simple memory of Harry disappearing out of Zayn's arms.

“I don't know how to handle things,” Zayn says even more quietly than before and Harry's not sure if he's talking to him anymore or if Zayn's lost in his thoughts, saying out loud what he's been keeping in for a long while. But Harry doesn't stop him, he just stand there and waits, thinks it's his turn anyway. “I just went for a swim, you know? It was really late, but I kept looking out at the ocean and I just wanted to swim for a little, because I thought it was going to clear my mind or something equally as stupid.”

 _You don't swim,_ Harry thinks when Zayn pauses. He remembers how they were walking down the beach, thinking it was them against the world, rushing and young, laughing all the way up to Zayn's house. They held hands and didn’t know it wasn’t going to last, that each bump of Harry’s shoulder against Zayn’s was like a steady countdown, the sand piling up at the bottom of the hourglass.  Harry remembers like it didn't happen twelve years ago.

“I just wanted to feel something,” Zayn continues, and he sounds like he's thinking about it, like he's remembering too, the feeling still fresh in his mind. “I wanted to feel nothing. I knew it was stupid, that I should have stayed in my room, but I just had to try. I had to see if it'd work,” Zayn pauses as he chuckles, that sound that Harry’s learnt to not associate with happiness, but rather with sadness and despair, when all you can do is laugh. “I almost drowned, but I didn't feel anything, I didn't even know I couldn't breathe until someone pulled me out. I don’t know how to handle this Harry. I just don’t want you to leave again.”

“I don’t want to leave either,” Harry says weakly at the door, where his hand is still resting, still feeling the way Zayn breathes.

Harry turns the doorknob and opens the door, sees how Zayn is leaning against the wall next to it, his head down and eyes closed. And Zayn doesn’t jump up and down when Harry comes to stand in front of him, but it’s not what Harry wanted in the first place, because all he wants is to be here, with Zayn, preferably holding his hand. But as it is, Harry rather  wraps his hands around Zayn’s neck as he brings him closer until they’re pressed together, hugging and holding each other close because they can, because they’re both _here_ in the same _now_.

“I don’t want to leave,” Harry repeats himself, as he feels his words echo around Zayn’s neck, etching their outline into his skin. “But you do.” He swallows against his dry throat and closes his eyes too, because he needs to do this, Harry needs to make sure Zayn knows. “You need to leave, before I can come find you; you leave to go somewhere special. I don’t know where and I don’t know why, but you have to leave, okay?”

"When?" Zayn asks and Harry wants to say this Sunday, that Zayn should leave this Sunday in four years.

But he can't do that, Harry can't do that to himself or Zayn, because he'd run, Harry would run to find him, wherever Zayn goes to. So instead he says, "On my twenty-first birthday. You have to promise me you'll leave."

Zayn fists at the back of Harry’s t-shirt and holds on so tightly, Harry doesn’t know if he’ll ever let go, but then Zayn straightens up and looks at Harry. “Okay,” he says, his eyes red rimmed and lips between his teeth. Zayn looks so young again. “Okay, I’ll leave, but you have to stay here for a little longer.”

“I don’t know how much time we have.”

“I don’t care,” Zayn says, solid and steady, but it’s not a front this time, not even close. "I want you to stay."

Harry feels his lips curve upwards a little as he leans in and presses them to Zayn’s. And it’s something akin to muscle memory, how they always melt, always get lost in each other, in the way Zayn still tastes like cigarettes and mint.

Harry hums and presses his forehead to Zayn’s. “I love you too,” he says without thinking, because Harry doesn’t know if it’s in the way the good outweighs the bad or if it’s in the small things, the little things that he knows, that have imprinted on his skin. Harry doesn’t hear barking, and he doesn’t think he can see the lights, the purples and the blues of the fireworks exploding behind his eyelids, because as Harry says it, all he sees is Zayn. It’s a statement of truth. It’s a fact and nothing more, nothing but exactly what it is.


	5. 2015

Harry can feel it coming. He’s driving down the Pacific Coast Highway with the sea flashing to his right and Harry knows it’s coming: Zayn. The drive isn’t too long and there’s little to no traffic, but Harry still enjoys the view, the beach and palm trees always leading his way. His window is open, arm posed over the glass’ edge so he can feel the air glide over his skin, hear the people waiting for the light to switch to green, catch that early morning sea-salt smell. It’s nice, to be able to see as the sun lazily awakens to a clear blue sky. The drive is Harry’s favourite part of going home, easy and simple, just getting from point A to B. Always the same turns, the same stretches of sand opening up as the tires spin. But today is much more than just that.

It’s been a week. A week of stressful lunches with Nina, during which they were able to finally finish their presentation for that one class that Harry regrets signing up for. The title _Modern Relations_ was interesting and it might be Harry’s own fault for not checking anything about the class – like he should have – but the last thing he thought he was going to have to do for the class was to delve into his own family relations. It wouldn’t have been that bad, not if his family was the typical nuclear molecule that lived in a white picket fence house. Or, like Nina’s family: fully functional. As it is, his parents are divorced, and that’s not a major deviation, Harry is aware. At least not in the modern sense, not at all. It’s not major to outsiders and everyone that didn’t have to watch his dad pack his belongings and hear his mother cry almost every night for two months. To everyone that doesn’t see the look Anne gets in her eyes, the far away stare Harry’s just learned to recognize as longing and loving instead of pained and bitter. It’s not more than a common thing, the latest trend. To Harry, who’s been rehashing how he felt, how it worked after Des left – how it didn’t work – it’s his life. It’s the part he tries to forget, the one he tries not to think about.

It’s been a week of Harry looking at his hand and the new ring that now occupies his middle finger. For a second, Harry wondered if it would be too weird, too hopeful to put the ring on his left hand, on his forth finger, where he wouldn’t mind having a tan-line. Harry figured it would be delusional since they had a whole week left, all of four years to wait until finally, he’d get Zayn in the _now._ So Harry chose the middle finger on his left hand, still a promise, still a hope to one day move the ring one finger over.

Before he had the chance to hug Zayn again, to press himself into the crook of Zayn’s neck and breathe in, Zayn took a simple golden chain from around his neck with a ring looped through it that Harry’s never noticed before. Harry didn’t know what to think when Zayn took the ring in his hand, didn’t know what to expect when Zayn didn’t say anything, just passed the ring over to him with no words. The ring is gold, a solid weight to it with a printed _P_ in the crown of it. It’s regal, massive with its meaning and heavy with the intention.

“It’s a promise,” Zayn said, looking down at the ring before he raised his eyes to Harry’s. “It’s a promise that I won’t forget.”

And Harry hasn’t been able to stop looking at it, at the promise wrapped around his middle finger.

*

 _It’s the last time_ , Harry can’t help but think as he listens to the traffic around him, as he feels the wheels spin, as he doesn’t count a single palm tree. There’s not a cloud in sight, not a single white puff anywhere in the vast white blue of the morning sky, like Harry’s making the sun shine with his smile. It’s March 1st, so the air has a bite to it, the sun barely making an appearance behind the hills to his left, but the ocean is already shining, people making their way up and down the highway, rushing to get to their trophies.

It’s a good day, Harry keeps in mind, keeps smiling at himself for no apparent reason. He’s been smiling since he woke up last week, splayed out on top of his covers in his jeans and t-shirt and as much as his cheeks are starting to hurt, he can’t stop – not that he wants to anyway. There’s a certain charm about not being able to stop smiling, about thinking you look stupid and then smiling even wider because you don’t care, because you’re actually happy. Niall was making fun of Harry the whole week, of course, but Harry didn’t mind, not at all, because Niall was smiling too since he’s officially a spoken for man with Barbara and all. Harry’s still having trouble believing Niall managed to seal the deal on that one, not that Harry’s not happy about that too. It’s just that Niall’s always been loud about being one of those ‘forever single’ people that don’t need a relationship. And as much as Harry never quite got that, never really got not wanting to be in love, he stood by Niall just as he’s happy for him now.

And Harry can’t stop himself from smiling, because he never really got not wanting to be in love, to have that one person that is your half, that makes you whole – that completes you, but even Harry thinks that too cliché. Harry always wanted that, to be more than remembered, to be more than just on someone’s mind. Harry wanted to be in someone’s mind, a permanent fixture in someone’s forever. Harry’s always wanted to have a forever with someone.

Driving down the same road as he does every weekend, Harry keeps smiling because this time, this Sunday, he’s driving towards what just might be his forever, what he wants as his forever starting today.

Anne notices, even Robin picks up on his sudden positive disposition, which from the past two weeks is more than a welcomed change in Harry’s life. They chat over a light lunch – salad and bread fingers – catch up on what they missed over the phone. Harry makes sure to mention the project again and this time Anne actually asks, “How did it go?” instead of smiling and avoiding the subject altogether.

“Good,” Harry nods, because it actually was good, no matter how much he’d have rather done just about anything else. “The professor was happy, so I guess it was good.”

Robin pats him on the back and Anne gives him one of those smiles that says “I’m so proud of you,” and “Look at what I made,” all in one. It’s one of Harry’s favorites, because it makes him feel accomplished, like he’s making something of himself. He likes making Anne proud, makes him feel like he’s doing something right.

Harry never understood how some people can stand to be alone or why they’d need to distance themselves from everyone, even if it’s just to think. He’s always needed Niall’s input, Anne’s advice and Gemma’s sober opinion. Harry’s always needed people around him to be sane, to keep going and not completely crash right before he’s supposed to start dancing naked around his house – like he did when he was eleven.

So he has no idea why he’s sitting alone on the beach again.

There’s no one else besides him, no one but the shush of the ocean and the barely-there-whisper of the breeze kissing his exposed arms. He’s barefoot again and his jeans are rolled up at the ankles because he hasn’t been able to get rid of the soaked-through-clothes-feeling that’s been clinging to his skin like a desperate child.

He thinks he can see the appeal in being left alone to consider your thoughts and put everything in order, organize the small little things running around your head and put everything into perspective. It’s getting cold, but Harry isn’t deterred by the sudden change in weather, at least not enough to go grab a jacket. It’s been a rough couple of weeks, a wonderfully rough couple of weeks that Harry will forever cherish and question, for their strangeness and disbelief in reality. The light of that bonfire is imprinted on his skin, how the embers slowly dissipated and died, the warmth replaced by Zayn pressing close to him, so incredibly close that Harry thought they were never going to separate again. The countless pillows on Zayn’s bed, like Zayn cocoons himself around them when he misses having something to wrap his arms around, something to pull close from night, till when he wakes up, blinking slowly and his voice a rasp. Harry’s never going to forget how  Zayn’s kitchen smelled when he cooked them pasta and that sauce that kept getting stuck in Zayn’s barely there beard. Harry will always remember how Rhino kept trying to jump in his lap last time, when he and Zayn went to sit back on the couch since Harry wasn’t planning on locking himself in the bathroom again. But most of all, Harry will remember the pain, just the simple ache of having to wait and leave, and having everything in the palm of his hand only to watch it turn to dust and blow away with the wind. Simple, but just about the most painful thing Harry’s ever had the displeasure to be a part of. It’s all behind him though, so Harry will still cherish the memory of leaving and coming back, and leaving again, because it’s over. The wait is over because he’s here, with his toes in the sand and the breeze in his hair.

Harry’s sitting on the beach as he watches the weather change above him, from clear blue skies and a bright yellow sun to lurid clouds and ominous winds. It’s eerie and calming at the same time, to watch as day turns into early night and the world follow behind, changes its course of picnics to hot tea and cozy blankets. But Harry stays where he is, happy to watch that one especially big cloud come closer and closer, getting ready to explode in rainfall and thunder. He remembers wanting to be a cloud when he was little, one of those big puffy ones that look like whipped-cream, like he could walk on it and the cloud wouldn’t give in under his weight.

But as Harry sits on the beach with no one in sight, he isn’t putting his thoughts in order, isn’t organizing his mind or thinking how great it would be to be a cloud, free to fly all over the world. Harry’s thinking about how in just a couple of hours, he’ll start his forever, his dreams over and the sand in the hourglass finally filling the bottom half completely - to the very last grain.

If it happened every four years, and if this is the fifth and last time, Zayn should be thirty-six today. He’ll be thirty-six with his hair still buzzed off or maybe reaching down to his shoulders again, maybe it’ll be green for all Harry knows. Maybe once he sees Zayn walking down the beach, toward where Harry’s sitting with a smile of his own, they’ll walk into the sunset, hand in hand and their shoulders bumping - the taste of cigarettes on Harry’s lips.

The lurid clouds are preventing Harry to continue his more than pleasant daydream, when a chill runs down his spine just as thunder echoes from somewhere not so far away. Harry can feel the subtle change in the wind, no longer just a whisper, and he can see how the ocean moves differently, more alive and powerful like it’s intent is to wash over the shore, climb up to all those stairs leading to all of those houses. The water is darker, murkier at a first glance and that cloud, the one Harry has been following with his eyes and watching closely is all but gone, not a trace of it in sight. And that’s all Harry feels, no movement or any other not-so-subtle change. Harry doesn’t feel the earth shake, doesn’t feel like he’s being thrown through a worm-hole or pulled up into the sky. It’s just the clouds and the ocean, like the mood in front of his eyes is shifting, like it’s not the right time to smile again.

A lightning bolt strikes on the horizon and not a second later, thunder booms around him with a gush of wind, making Harry’s hair sway away from his face. That’s when he hears it, a cry somewhere in the distance, an echoing scream for help. And Harry would’ve stayed put, would’ve ignored it completely if it wasn’t for his heart and the way he could feel it beating in his chest and hands, telling him to run, to move and run towards the scream.

Harry doesn’t know what’s going on or why he’s running along the shore and looking out at the ocean, but he knows he has to, that it’s reason he’s on the beach, because Harry’s never wanted to be alone, never needed to have the peace and quiet to collect himself  - even if it’s just to think. So he’s running bare foot, as fast as his legs will let him, and he’s starting to gasp for air, but the scream is getting louder, thicker and slowly dripping down Harry’s spine.

That’s when he sees it, the hands reaching up to the sky in the middle of the ocean, a good couple of yards away from the shore. Harry watches the arms trying to grab onto something, anything, only to find nothing but ocean and rain, and Harry’s swimming towards him before he knows what he’s doing.

His arms are aching, legs splashing behind him and he desperately hopes he isn’t too late, that he’ll make it in time to pull Zayn to the shore, because _Zayn doesn’t swim._ Harry has him in his reach when he swims behind him to grab at Zayn’s waist, to try to calm him down and make him rest his body on Harry as he starts to swim back, straight to the sand.

Zayn’s still crying, breathing so loudly that Harry doesn’t want him to stop, because in that moment it’s proof, it’s the only thing that tells Harry that Zayn is still there, still with him. Harry knows Zayn is alive when they reach the shore, but it doesn’t stop him from lying him down and leaning over him, hands on Zayn’s cheeks to feel how cold he is, how hard he’s shaking, that he’s okay.

“Zayn?” Harry asks timidly, not knowing what the protocol is, what he should say, if he should even say anything.

“Thank you,” Zayn manages to rasp out in between coughs, still shaking. “Whoever you are, thank you.”

And that’s when it clicks, when Harry really looks at Zayn and sees his eyes. They shine, more gold and honey than oak, no wrinkles framing them to go along with the shadows his eyelashes create. His hair isn’t green or white or buzzed off, it’s down to his shoulders, wavy and beautiful, Harry’s favourite. Zayn’s beautiful, he always is, but he has a glow to him, a certain unsureness and fragility he’s long lost. He doesn’t look as solid as Harry remembers from last week, but more like the young boy chasing Harry down the beach that Harry knows from that first time, from the time he fell in love at first sight.

“My name is Harry,” he says and feels stupid, like he’s stating the obvious, but he really isn’t, because this Zayn, the young Zayn that almost drowned that night so many years ago doesn’t know who Harry is. He has no idea. “I’m Anne’s kid, Styles, from down the beach?”

Harry waits for Zayn to nod or say something, show Harry that he’s listening, but as he does nothing, just continues to stare at Harry’s eyes, Harry nods himself and continues.

“Listen to what I’m about to tell you, okay? You can do whatever you want with it, but just listen,” Harry tries to put his words in his face to express how important it is, how it’s not stupid at all. “I love you Zayn. I know that must sound ridiculous since you don’t even know who I am, but I love you and you love me too. There’s gonna be a bonfire in a couple of months and we’re gonna meet each other for the first time or, again, I guess. All I’m asking is that you come to that bonfire, nothing more, just come to see me again. You’ll see what I’m talking about.”

Zayn blinks one, two times and tries to shake his head when he closes his eyes, dipping his head down. “Why?”

But Harry doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know which part Zayn is questioning, what he doesn’t understand, so he waits. Not for the first time, Harry waits. He sits on his knees in front of Zayn and keeps his eyes on him as he holds Zayn’s hands, intertwines their fingers and waits for Zayn to say something else, when Zayn looks up, his eyes glazed over.

“Why would you love me?” Zayn asks, open and honest, no twist to it, just a simple question that requires nothing more than for Harry to tell the truth.

And as much as it breaks Harry’s heart to hear that, he smiles and tightens his hold on Zayn’s hands. “You wait for me. After that bonfire, you wait for four years until I’m back again, until you walk up to me on the beach and we sit together. After another four years, you come find me on the beach and slowly kiss me awake, even if you waited so long for me to come back. We fight the next time, because you don’t show up. You forget that I’m gonna be there, but it’s not your fault, Zayn, and even through everything, I still love you. I’ll always love you.”

When Harry breathes out deeply, when he has nothing more to say, he looks down and hopes, stares at the promise on his finger and waits for Zayn to respond. It’s a lot to take in, maybe too much to process on the spot, after he’s just gotten out of the water, but Harry feels lighter, feels like this is just the beginning, not the end.

And then Zayn does the unimaginable, because Harry never thought he’d bring Harry’s head back up with a finger underneath his chin and kiss him, lightly press their lips together for a short second.

“I’ll wait,” Zayn whispers as Harry can see the sky changing, can feel how the ocean starts drifting away from the shore, away from where Harry and Zayn are sitting. “I’ll come to the bonfire. I promise to be there, but you have to come back too, okay?”

“I’ll come back, Zayn, I promise. I love you and I want to stay, but I don’t think I have a lot of time left here,” Harry says looking over his shoulder, where the pitch dark sky is opening up to a clearer blue. “I’ll be at the bonfire.”

Zayn leans in again, but this time, it's to press their foreheads together. “I love you too?”

“You do, Zayn, you really do. And I love you for that. You’re the one thing I can’t live without.”

“I am?”

“You’re perfect,” Harry hums as he feels himself falling, like the ground is opening up to take him away, to throw him through the air. “Just wait for me, please.”

“I will, Harry, I’ll wait.”

*

Waking up after a good, uninterrupted night’s sleep has to be Harry’s favourite feeling in the world - or a close second. The feeling of being wrapped in someone’s arms, covered with a heavy duvet as the sun rises with you. It’s like a frozen moment in time, like you’re completely vulnerable yet safe, cocooned around those eight pillows on your bed.

When Harry was seven and he couldn’t fall asleep, he used to talk to his ceiling, lying on his back and spilling secret after secret, every worry that just barely crossed his mind. His grades, Anne and Gemma, getting a new bike, befriending the loud kid from down the street - the important stuff. He did it every night for almost a year, stuffing and hiding his dreams underneath his pillow, of how he wanted to find someone that wouldn’t leave him, that wouldn’t move away from Harry like Des did from Anne. Harry wished he could find that one person that would be willing to wait.

And that’s exactly who he wakes up to. Before he opens his eyes, Harry knows it’s Zayn’s thighs underneath his head, that it’s Zayn’s fingers combing through his hair and Zayn’s lips pressed against his forehead - soft, like the first time.

“Zayn?” Harry asks for the second time that night, but it doesn’t sound as desperate now, doesn’t sound as more than an acknowledgement.

“Harry, I’m here, I’m here,” Zayn whispers into his hair.

His clothes are wet, Harry notices, soaked through and cold, colder than what the sunny weather would suggest as Harry opens his eyes and looks up at Zayn. “I saved you.”

Zayn smiles. With everything they’ve been through, all those years Zayn’s spend waiting and watching Harry leave time and time again, Zayn can’ help but smile - and Harry knows exactly how he feels.

“You did,” Zayn nods.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Zayn leans down and presses his lips to Harry’s forehead. “Because you didn’t know who I was. You walked up to that bonfire and you didn’t remember, so…”

“So you waited,” Harry says as he feels his lips stretch upwards. He can feel tears gathering in his eyes.

“I did,” Zayn nods again and leans down to kiss Harry slowly, because for the first time, they don’t have to worry about running out of time.

Once they separate and Harry sits down next to Zayn, both of their toes buried in the sand, Harry runs his fingers through Zayn’s hair.

“It’s grey,” Harry says as his fingers tangle in the strands. It’s not Harry’s favourite, Zayn's hair isn't as long as he’d like, isn't that raven black he fell in love with on the first night, but as they sit there, together in the _now_ , Harry doesn't think he minds.

“I love you,” he whispers as he leans his head on Zayn’s shoulder, watching as the sky turns to a deep purple and a heavenly orange, the colours fading as quickly as the sun is being cast away at sea. And it’s perfect, because Harry isn’t alone and Zayn’s is holding his hand.

“I love you too.”

 

Harry doesn't need anything else, except for what he finally has _right now_ : Zayn. After all, it’s not about the trophy.

 

The end.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to hear what you thought. Tell me here or come to my [tumblr](http://www.itsallaboutzarry.tumblr.com/) to chat.


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